The Stillness
by Aerilex
Summary: Castiel's Grace has been feeling...odd.  As the strange feeling grows, so does the pain of isolation.
1. Prologue The Stillness

**_Disclaimer:_** Author does not own the characters and is making no profit off this fan-made story .

**_A/N:_** I actually kind of started this as a stream-of-consciousness loosely going through one of many options of what may be to come in the rest of S6. I'm not sure where I'm going with it, any feedback anyone has to improve/continue would be greatly appreciated! Thank you!

_The Stillness_

"_Be still, and know that I am God." –Psalm 46:10_

There is a thick, heavy gray mist spilling veiling the pre-dawn glow that would signal the sun rising over Eastport any other morning. The mist washes out the vivid green-blue of the water, hides the shade of blue that resembles a robin's egg before the sunlight brightens it to a brighter hue later in the day. This might be a poor version of the Father's wondrous creations; it may pale in comparison to the magnificent mountain ranges of the Andes, capped in white and covered in the golden light of day. It may indeed be a poor example of his Father's glory when judged against the monastery carefully hidden in wrappings of lush forestry in Nepal, where he shared a morning of silent contemplation with a sun spirit cloaked in the guise of a traveler seeking solace and revelation of a sort that could not be received in prayer or from Heaven. It certainly doesn't stand up to gold-flecked hazel-green eyes that reflect a beautiful soul made up of more _light_ than he'd ever seen—though, he reluctantly admits, he may be biased.

Still, Castiel has chosen this place, a familiar bench on an unfamiliar dock, to rest—and despite the Winchester-toned voice in the back of his mind making disdainful comments, he finds that he can still sense an ethereal beauty about the dull, mist-veiled seaport. He had once told Dean that humans were his Father's works of art—that still holds true, and he finds that he can still enjoy the pleasant warmth of human emotions and thoughts despite the contrasting darkness of their less-desirable qualities.

His focus is currently on the soprano-soft hum of an expectant mother singing to her unborn child as she moves through her morning routine. The new soul is still flushed with golden light, fresh from Heaven. Its presence is refreshing, and sends a warm glow through his Grace as it reaches automatically for him. The golden light also brightens the mother's soul and her soft honey-colored eyes that he cannot physically see from where he sits. The mother's name is Mary. She will call the girl-child Faith.

Mary is not the only one of the humans who has started her day, but her soul calls to him. As she does every morning, she prays while she sings to her unborn daughter. _Lord, thank you for another beautiful morning. Please watch over the Bentleys while they travel. Please bless Gina's new little one, and help her find a name for the poor kid before they call him something terrible like Apple._ A warm, sunny laugh._ Oh, and tell Grams hi for me. Thank you, Lord. Amen._

It is a thoughtful prayer, and it unexpectedly warms him just as the new soul did. He knows he could lose himself easily in this warmth, for a time. The concept is pleasant just as it is troubling. Angels do not measure time. It is a thing that is outside the realms of Heaven and Hell, altered to suit otherworldly intent. Humans measure it by breaths and heartbeats, hours and days and years. If angels ever judged the passing of time by anything, Castiel knows they would choose to measure the fluctuations in the human souls they observe. He knows that the golden soul of Mary's little daughter will dim with age and experience, then will brighten with other vivid colors that reflect her personality. As the soul nears the end of its time on Earth, it will develop into a thing of multihued silvery beauty, and it will return to rest in the Fields. This will all happen in an indefinable span to an angel; angels are not affected by time.

Castiel has fallen into a place where he is, _most definitely_, being affected by time.

He frowns at the realization. Though he had appreciated the feeling of peace that Eastport had provided, he realizes that he is digressing, getting carried away with his thoughts. It is not opportune, and it is certainly not convenient. But he has had so little time to _think_ of late. At least, too little time to think of anything that is not related to the war he is waging against his brothers—_his brothers of whom he is ashamed, his brothers whose blood stains his hands_—and he regrets that, now. Perhaps he would have held onto the shreds of humanity he had gleaned from his time on Earth if he had had the chance to ruminate on more than the duties of a soldier and a general.

The battle is at an impasse, for now. Since the gathering of the weapons, Raphael has grown still. Castiel knows as a skilled tactician that this would be the best time to strike his elder brother down—but Raphael's units have been organizing a frenzied campaign of attacks against Castiel's following, obviously meaning to strike at and deplete their waning masses before Raphael makes his next big move. In the last several days, however, the attacks have petered out, and Castiel's lieutenants are gathering what information they can in order to preempt Raphael. The lapse in battle has given him this moment to recuperate depleted strength and put his mind to simpler things, and he is grateful for it.

He finds that he desperately needs this moment of respite, to gather together his memory and to process through all the pieces that seem to have fragmented, leaving his justifications and his reasoning blurry. He finds it increasingly difficult to remember why he is fighting this war, a problem he had encountered before, during the Apocalypse. It is a problem that he would have easily solved then by reminding himself of his faith in a green-eyed human, full of heat and fury and righteousness. He has grown since then, and simultaneously has become more and…_less_. Less than he was when he spent time with Dean and Sam, certainly.

His shoulders roll as he heaves a heavy sigh. His fingers interlace before his lips, and his eyes narrow as they stare blankly ahead over the water. Rebel, guardian, comrade, friend… All mantles that he has held at one time. Now sheriff. Now general. Now _soldier_, yet again. He no longer has the privilege of time in order to take up the roles he had, though he has tried his best to be there when he could. Still, there is a distance, now, between him and his charges. It is in Sam's reluctant glance. It is in Dean's furious tirades and his blazing eyes. He regrets it. He truly does.

Now that his mind has turned to this darkening place, he becomes more certain of why he chose to take his rest here in Eastport. He might have returned to Dean and Sam, might have again tried to mend his way across the rift that separates him from the brothers now. Here in the darkened seaport, he can easily watch them from afar to satisfy his protective urge to keep them safe. He can put off the next meeting that will inevitably end in his inability to make the brothers understand what he is doing, and why he cannot share the details they crave so desperately just yet. It just isn't the _time_. He feels raw, scraped bare, and he _isn't strong enough_—not even with the weapons. It isn't so much a question of the strength of his Grace, but…his Grace is a part of the problem.

He feels it as a niggling thing, something swirling in the deepest part of his Grace. He somehow knows instinctually that there is something wrong—that there has been, perhaps since even before Balthazar relinquished the weapons to him. The light and the warmth that he feels, that bring him comfort and power, seems to be flickering slowly. The sensation is different from before, when he was slowly falling. _That_ had been like a slow burn, a transformation not wholly unlike the taking of a vessel: his Grace sliding like liquid to compress and conform to Jimmy Novak's body, eddying about Jimmy's soul like a protective veil. His Descent had felt much the same, a hot liquid sensation as his Grace _turned_, shifting from _other_ to _human_.

It had been different. This time, _this feeling_…

It feels like his Grace is choking, drowning—_diminishing_, like a flickering flame ravaged by a wild storm. It _hurts_, in the distant way that he feels and comprehends pain. And along with the feeling of his Grace struggling to contain itself within him, he also understands that he is slowly losing himself and his emotions—all that has come to make him _Cas_, the angel that rebelled against Heaven and ultimately had his shattered faith in his Father restored when he realized that perhaps free will had been what God had intended to prevail all along.

He keeps the knowledge to himself. Who would he tell? Balthazar would only worry needlessly and try to force him to step back from the war—an option he does not have. He cannot allow Raphael to resume the Apocalypse—Dean and Sam have already suffered enough. They will suffer as long as the Apocalypse remains a viable means to bring Paradise to Earth. And he doesn't know if he can trust his brothers to continue to fight against Raphael's might without succumbing to his will.

Bringing him to another point about sharing his concern over his Grace. Aside from Balthazar, Castiel is uncertain that he can trust his brothers and sisters with this.

And the only other beings that he trusts are the humans he has come to consider a strange sort of family—Dean, Sam, and Bobby. He knows better than to burden _them_ with this. He knows better than to presume that, after long months of anger and bitterness, he can just share such troubling news with them only to have to disappear back to the fray again immediately after. He does not want them to worry. They have other problems to focus on. And if he is being honest with himself, Castiel can't truly say that he doesn't expect Dean would be angry with him if he told him about this—he will be angry at Castiel either way. Castiel feels too weary, too _burdened_ to add another reason for Dean to lash out at him—_fuel to the fire_.

And he isn't even sure what the matter is—he only knows that his Grace feels…_wrong_, somehow. Needless to worry his human family over something when he has yet to identify what it means.

He is aware, even without a memory of Dean's voice in his mind, that he is _making bullshit excuses_. He is aware that he needs to _drop a pair,_ and_ man up, _and _spit it the fuck out, already_. And he is aware that Dean wants him to _just tell us what the hell's going on, Cas!_ And…

And this is _the very reason_ that he had chosen not to return to Dean. He huffs a breath of frustration. It just so happens that Dean can manage to distract him and make him doubt himself even if he isn't with his hunter. He heaves another sigh, and returns his focus to the stillness of the morning. He lets it fill him with a false sense of calm, emulates this calm as only a master can.

He wonders how long Dean will resent him for lying, even if it is by omission.

Mary's humming ceases as Faith kicks, and the expecting mother releases a startled laugh. The sunrise begins to peek through the thick veil of fog, the heat cutting through the tendrils of mist as it begins to dissipate.

There is a sound of rustling feathers as Castiel shifts through the undercurrent of space and flees his temporary haven.


	2. Chapter 1 The Lost

**_Disclaimer:_** Still don't own it.

**_A/N:_** Nothing much to say, really. I hope you enjoy. :)

Chapter One

The Lost

"_For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one; he has not hidden his face from him but has listened to his cry for help." –Psalm 22:24_

"Do you even remember what your wings once were?"

The question startles Castiel. He glances over his shoulder and a curled wing at Balthazar's smirking face. Despite his mirthful expression, Castiel can see lassitude in the lines cut around his brother's mouth and the poorly-restrained accusation in his eyes.

Castiel is weary, as well. He is not in the mood for Balthazar's games. If his brother has something he wants to say, he will say it eventually. Castiel turns his eyes forward, gazing on the edges of light that separate this realm of Heaven from the inner territories that surround the City and the Garden. Anytime he moves into a new territory he must cover his trail, put up new protective wards—this had been his intent before Balthazar's interruption. He continues with his task, ignoring the huff of laughter behind him.

"Bloomin' twit." His tone is warm, almost affectionate, and it reminds Castiel of _before_. He contains the sigh that threatens to move through him, but discontent still touches his Grace. _Before_ has become a taboo subject for him. Balthazar is here with him now, again, and Castiel is simply lucky to have his brother at his side in this time of war. They have changed, the both of them. "Shove over." Balthazar bumps a shoulder against Castiel, effectively nudging him aside. "I can handle this. You'd probably just foul it up, state you're in."

Castiel inhales deeply. "Thank you." He keeps a sharp eye on Balthazar, nonetheless, and watches each graceful arc of his brother's hands closely. He cannot afford to let his guard down simply because he and Balthazar are close friends. He cannot afford to allow mistakes.

As he looks on, silence descends upon them. Castiel knows what it means. It is when his brother seems at peace that Castiel can sense his thoughts raging. In consideration, Castiel turns an eye upon his wings. They glimmer, fluttering in dark iridescence, like oil spilled under light. There are places where the feathers are twisted, ruffled and almost dusty in the lack of care shown to them. There are other patches of soft flesh from where the feathers have been torn, marked by mottled bruises and some still-bleeding abrasions. Castiel can't find it in him to be surprised by this; his Grace is still afflicted, and even if it weren't he still bears weariness enough that his wings will take longer to heal than usual. He struggles to understand what Balthazar could have meant.

Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Balthazar does not make him wait very long. "Your wings were glorious, once," he murmurs as he works, finishing the first ward and moving onto the second. "Do you remember them?"

Castiel sighs now but remains silent. Of _course_ he remembers his wings and how they once were. He used to be told that, despite the frenzied disarray of his feathers, his wings were a sight to behold. Whiter than snow, shining with the sheen of a pure pearl, lined with a dusting of silver upon the edge of each feather. That was, of course, before his trip to Hell. None of his brothers had dared to come near his wings since then. He does not see why this matters now, though.

"You keep sacrificing for them. For _him_."

Castiel frowns. Yes, it is true that he has made significant choices in the past and that he has given up much for Dean. And for Sam. Still, he is uncertain why—

"Why are you fighting this war, Cas?"

Ah. So, this argument again. A very unique approach, Castiel will give him that. His frown becomes stern. "You know my reasons, Balthazar."

"Actually, no. I don't. This is a fool's errand, Cas. We could easily leave this to someone else, you and I, and go peruse the more pleasurable experiences of the human world before Raphael brings it to ruin."

"If you think I am capable of doing that, then it is obvious that I am not the only fool here." He does not intend to be unkind, but he tires of having to explain himself over and over again. He is simply _tired_.

Balthazar gives him a hard look, eyes glinting like starlit pinpricks. He finishes the last ward and turns to tuck his jacket over his chest, crossing his arms overtop the folds. His laugh is a cold thing, not like the _before_ Balthazar at all. "Right, Cas. I know that already. What's really roasting my noodle here is that I don't know the _why_ anymore." He shakes his head, gaze turned from Castiel's. "Is this for your brothers…or for your humans?"

Another sigh escapes Castiel's lips, wearier this time than the first. "Does it have to be one or the other?"

"I've told you already, you can't stop the fighting. Our brothers are stubborn little pricks, you know that."

Castiel finds his throat moving over short bursts of aborted syllables that stutter from his lips for a moment before he finally says with difficulty, "I have to try. I have to try so that we have anyone left to govern Heaven after this war."

"And for the Winchesters," Balthazar adds none-too-warmly.

Castiel flinches at his tone. "Yes. And for Dean and Sam. To keep the human world they love so much safe. To keep things…the same, for awhile longer."

"I don't bloody know why—"

"You never will," Castiel assures him. "Not if you choose to blatantly misunderstand."

Balthazar takes a few moments to digest this. He and Castiel, in an infallibly human way, manage to avoid looking at one another while they respectively contemplate the other's words. Then, Balthazar says quietly, "You've already given too much to him, Cas. How many more lives are you willing to lay at his feet?"

Castiel looks up, but Balthazar has already stepped into flight. Castiel's Grace wavers with deep-seated sorrow, and his vessel's body sags under its weight. Yes, he reaffirms to himself, he is decidedly lucky to have his brother at his side through this war. And if it was unclear before, it is very clear now—they both have changed.

Castiel only hopes that he has changed for the better, though he carries no doubt that he has been lessened by this war.

Not for the first time, he wonders if his Father made the right choice rewarding him with a second resurrection.


	3. Chapter 2 The Valiant

**_Disclaimer:_** Nothing's changed, I'm certainly not a Kripke still very much an Alden, so no ownership here.

**_A/N:_** Thanks, B. ^_^ I hope everyone enjoys, Dean's finally making a sort-of appearance here, will be more involved in the next chapter.

The Valiant

"_This is my command—be strong and of good courage. Do not be afraid or dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go." –Joshua 1:9_

Castiel sidesteps and turns, feathers aquiver as he sweeps out of the way of the angel sword that threatens to cut deep into his shoulder. He is in the outer sphere, moving between the Realms of Heaven on his way from a battle; he is foolishly, recklessly alone. His lieutenants as have scattered under the order of Balthazar, regrouping and out of reach of his call—the outer sphere has always made it difficult to reach out with angelic Grace, much of the reason he'd naively thought himself safe here. It is completely by sheer dumb luck that Raphael's soldiers have happened upon him at all.

He curses the fact that he has seemingly inherited the Winchesters' magnetism for trouble and chaos.

Then he curses himself for even the momentary distraction of thought as he dances out of the way of a second blade while parrying and blocking a third. Twisting his body, he grasps his brother's wrist before Anafiel overpowers him. He has never been a good fighter, and is in fact a much more capable tactician, tracker, creator of Devil's Traps and weaver of Enochian spells. He has also always been good at manipulating his Grace.

Until it started to fail him. _Again._

He is quickly becoming overwhelmed, pushed now into simply dodging backwards on the pull of his wings as his brothers try to flank and close in upon him. He has to somehow reduce their numbers, but his nerves are frayed and his strength wearing thin from the battle he only just left.

He thinks vaguely that Dean would say he is _beyond fucked_.

And again, his thoughts have betrayed him with a distraction. He has no need for the disruption that thoughts of Dean offer at the moment. With a burst of strength he thanks his Father for, he sweeps his Grace out and _pushes_ against his three brothers. It is enough force to send them stumbling, leaving him a brief moment to breathe and _fly_, his wings stretching as he steps backwards to shift through space.

A sharp tearing burst of _white hot agony_ rips through his back as Sabrael catches his wing and _jerks_ on it, tugging him hard and pulling him back. His breath stutters as space and time wrinkle around him for a moment before it all straightens and _snaps_ back into place. His hands scramble for purchase against Sabrael, trying to free his wing and shove the other angel away.

He forgets about Anafiel and Apolloin until they become part of the frenzied tangle of wings. Suddenly it becomes more about a teeth-gnashing fight to avoid silver blades than it is about freeing his wing, though the agony is nearly unbearable. Apolloin, the stronger of the three from Raphael's garrison, wrests Castiel's clutching fingertips from Sabrael, whose hand is free to draw back and _plunge _ the blade downward—

Instinctually, he reaches for the power of the first Weapon that comes to mind—the Perpetual Flame, hidden within a small metallic cylinder not unlike Dean Winchester's Zippo lighter, and twists the cylinder to release the Weapon just as the silver angel's blade _pierces—_

_ Descend. Fight. Demons. Twist. Cold. Fire. Burn. Burn. Burn. Scream. Agony. Terror. Flesh. Wings. Tear. Hurts. Hurts. Hurts! Descend. Fight. Demons. Twist. Cold. Fire. Burn. Burn. Burn. Scream. Agony. Terror. Flesh. Wings. Tear. Hurts! Descend. Fight. Demons. Twist. Cold. Fire. Burn. Burn. Burn. Scream. Agony. Terror. Flesh. Wings. Tear. Hurts—hurts—hurts! ,_ _oh Father it_ hurts_! —_

The flaring of blue flames bursts outward, then there is an explosion of luminescence. He hears the screaming of his brothers before they are swallowed within the _white, white_ glow of the Flame and the heat threatens to _consume_ his Grace, and he knows immediately—something is wrong—something is _not right_…but the pain in his wing and shoulder is too great, too sharp, _too much_ and he can't—he just can't… His Grace quivers and curls, responding to the sound of his true voice crying out, begging for his Father to save him. He is soon reduced to a quivering mass of whimpering _flesh_ and by the Saints he had never thought his true form could _hurt so much_—!

_Dear Castiel most high, hear and…um, crap, forgot how this one goes._

_No,_ Castiel groans mentally. _No, Dean, not now. Please. _He can't right now. He can't. And when Dean persists, he realizes that he will anyway.

_ Hey Cas, this is one of the important ones. We kinda need your help down here. Got some new info on the evil bitch who's out to gank us all, and…well, Bobby's still kind of going through a rough patch over Rufus and all, and he's been hinting but, y'know…he won't outright say, but he's worried about you. Think you can spare a minute for us to fill you in on Eve?_

Castiel listens intently as he shifts his tattered wing. The joints catch and creak, the wing jerking as it tries to straighten itself out. He can't move and he can't _not_ listen to Dean's voice. He has always, _always_ been powerless against Dean's prayers.

His wing is shattered, pummeled and pierced under the combined strength of his vanquished brothers. Castiel knows that he would have trouble flying to Dean, that he has too little strength.

And then his Grace twitches, responds to the nearness of another angel. He casts all his power into sensing the identity of his unknown brother, and his senses close off for a moment, then two.

It is not one of the angels that has allied themselves with Castiel.

His breath comes in rapid pants as he twists his body, pulling himself into a half-crumpled heap. He has to move. He has to _go_. He wills his wings to follow his instruction, wills his body to shift, but the pain is excruciating and it leaves him unbalanced. The angel is growing nearer, and he has to go _somewhere_, anywhere… He realizes vaguely that Dean is still praying to him.

_Look, Cas, I know you're busy leading your little Anti-Apocalypse Rebellion up there and all, but it's been a few weeks now since that whole stupid fake-world crap, and…I'm not mad anymore. Well, okay. That was a lie. I'm still kinda pissed, but not at—not at danger, Will Robinson levels anymore. More like a 2 outta 10 here, so. I mean, as soon as you get a 'moment of respite' or whatever—_

He latches on and _reaches_, gathers all the shattered Grace he can muster and then the world tilts on its axis and he _drags _his way through the space between him and his true place by the side of Dean Winchester…

…Another thought he isn't supposed to let distract him, he recalls vaguely as nerves tighten and pain clenches his body up tight.


	4. Chapter 3 The Stumble

_**Disclaimer: **_Still don't own anything here.

_**A/N:**_Thanks for your feedback, everyone. I hope you continue to enjoy the story :)!

The Stumble

_"Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but when hopes are realized at last, there is life and joy." –Proverbs 13:12_

"Castiel?"

The image that fills his mind's eye at the sound of the voice is of a young man, eyes bright with intelligence and half-hidden under unruly locks of hair. The soul that matches the hazel eyes and floppy hair is bright and expressive, pure of intention but tainted and darkened by its history. It takes him far too long to realize that this is significant for some reason, then the next voice breaks through the haze of darkness.

"Cas?" Part-surprise, part-curiosity. This voice summons unprecedented beauty in the form of a bright, bright soul colored gold with all the love and virtue a creature could hold. "Cas!"

_Dean..._

The single word, a reverent prayer, alights awareness within his mind, and he takes stock of the situation. His eyes are closed, he realizes, and he has lost a troublesome amount of time—long enough, it seems, to have warranted concern. His thoughts are wild and he is ignoring his hunter's voice to lean against whatever he has crash-landed upon. He takes a moment to gather himself, bracing against the pain, and just _breathes_. Fire lances through his back and across his shoulders, working its way down his arms to reach for his fingertips as they fumble for purchase over the hard surface of cool wood. The burn is unusual—he is more familiar with an icy sensation when his wings are attacked. This feels almost...feverish, like the time he was hit by Pestilence's curse. The same fever attacks his Grace, and for a moment he can almost trace it to that deep part of him that seems to be wearying and—and he can feel it as it _diminishes_.

The moment passes quickly as the air is cut through by a gasp. "Christ, Cas!" And then there is a warm set of hands against him, trying to tug him upright, and his whole body jerks against the pain. He pushes, pushes away as gently as he can. "Sorry, sorry," Dean murmurs, and though there are still fingertips brushing lightly across his nape the sharp _sharp_pain recedes so that he can finally hear three human hearts beating and can sense the clear presence of three mortals in the room with him; not two.

He starts, struggles to keep himself even partially-upright. He hadn't even registered Bobby with his Grace and _be damned_, he could have gotten them all _killed_. An inhuman snarl rolls deep in his chest, silencing whatever the humans had been saying as a touch of his true voice filters through in his rage. He doesn't breathe now but reaches outward with his Grace and feels around the edges of this world, assuring himself that his brothers have not followed him to this safe haven. When the moment passes and he is slightly reassured, he exhales slowly. His eyes flutter open, and dazedly he seeks the verdant gaze of his charge.

Dean is frowning at him, eyes bright with concern. "Y'with us now?" he asks gruffly. For a pleasant change, it seems the anger in the young hunter's voice is not directed at Castiel, but for the injury and the angels that had inflicted it.

By way of response, Castiel sighs, "Hello, Dean."

Dean snorts softly in amused exasperation. "Yeah, hey to you too, Cas." The fingers cupping the back of his neck move to his elbow.

Another hand grips his opposite arm. "You okay to stand?" Sam asks gently.

"I...believe so," Castiel grunts, and tries to shift. Dean's grip tightens and Sam's falls away as Castiel makes a strangled noise in his throat and his whole body seizes up in pain.

"Yeah, okay. You just stay down a minute, buddy. Don't need you bleedin' all over the rest of Bobby's house," Dean says with false humor.

"You're gonna clean that up, by the way, ya idjit." Bobby is somewhere beyond Sam, just out of Castiel's human range of sight.

"Yes, I will," he agrees absently, voice strained. "My apologies, Bobby."

His head is pushed against the hard surface beneath him a little too gently to be the sharp nudge of rebuke Bobby intends. "Just sit still and shut up a minute, Feathers. Gonna try to take a look at your shoulder."

"Not...not the shoulder," Castiel manages to ground out. "Cli-clipped the wing."

"_Shit_."

He isn't sure which of the three men is the one who utters the word. It may have been all of them. "I only require...a few moments." He growls as he tries to force his body to obey his will. "It...it should heal on its own."

"Yeah, well, the bleeding ain't slowing down at all, Cas. I think you might want to have someone check your mojo at your next angelic emissons test." A chill shivers up Castiel's spine at the words. "Sammy, can you get the first aid kit? Gonna have to do something with this mess until Cas can heal himself."

"Wards," Castiel murmurs as he hears Sam's heavy footsteps marching off.

There is a moment of hesitation, then Bobby grunts something to the effect that he will take care of warding the house against the angels. Castiel barely has the energy to focus on what he says, so he listens as Bobby departs. There is another short pause, then the strange pinprick sensation of Dean tugging at the collars of Castiel's clothing to lift it from his sticky skin. Castiel stiffens, and Dean mutters, "Sorry, Cas, but I gotta see how bad it is." Castiel makes a sound of consent and sighs as Dean gently manipulates his right arm and carefully tugs it free from the trench coat and suit jacket. He breathes out in a slight hiss, effectively telling Castiel that there must be a lot of blood back there. "Jesus, Cas...y'know, when I asked you to come when you had a minute, I didn't mean when you were like a half-cup short of _bled dry_."

"I...I didn't. I wasn't—I wasn't thinking. I just—I heard you call, and...I—I shouldn't even have come here." Castiel huffs in indignation. "I placed you in danger, all of you. I'm sorry."

"Dude." Dean's voice is strangled with horror, his hand tense against Castiel's shoulder. "_Please_tell me this didn't happen because I called for you."

Castiel jerks, _forces_his body to move and his gaze to move up to meet Dean's. Dean's eyes are wide and full of self-incrimination. Castiel rushes to reassure him, "No. No, Dean. I was already hurt before you called. You...gave me something to latch onto, to focus on through the pain so I could get here." Dean searched his gaze for a long moment, eyes flickering over his features before he relaxed with a slight smirk.

"Well, good. Saved your ass, then, I guess." Dean urges him to rest against what he realizes now is Bobby's desk, his body half-slumped over it. "And hey, unless you have another place to crash when your wings are fucked up, don't worry about coming here."

"Dean—"

"No, seriously, shut up a minute and listen," Dean says, so Castiel does. Dean's warm hand returns to settle against the base of his neck, fingertips rubbing soothing circles into his skin. "Look, I don't always understand what's going on up there. I mean, it's not like I have any way to, right? It's all kinda abstract and way beyond my pay grade. And I know I've kinda been a dick to you lately, but I'm just...frustrated, I guess. I mean, you can't tell me what's going on yet—shit, sorry. It's not only that," he adds as Castiel tenses, steeling himself for another lecture. "It's not only that," Dean repeats, rubbing Castiel's neck a moment longer to coax him back to calm. "It's—I mean, it's like there's _nothing _I can do to help you, Cas." He gives an abortive shrug as Castiel glances up at him, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

Castiel releases a soft, relieved huff of a breath. "Thank you, Dean." He cannot explain the warmth that invades his Grace then, but it is nearly overwhelming and simultaneously comforting.

The relief doesn't last, however, as Dean shrugs off his gratitude and his expression becomes critical as he eyes Castiel's shoulder. Castiel is also curious, and tries to turn and peer at the injured wing over his shoulder. The motion makes his head feel strange, and he drops it and closes his eyes to ward off a wave of dizziness. Dean continues to massage his neck, the gentle ministration lulling Castiel to a state of half-awareness.

Sam and Bobby return, the former with the med kit and the latter with a bottle of bourbon, a few beats later, and Castiel is relieved when he can sense them this time. "Okay, how do we do this, Cas? Can I just stitch up the part of your shoulder they fucked up?" Dean asks seriously.

Castiel gives it a moment of thought. "Yes, that should be fine. The wing will have to heal itself with my Grace, once it is functioning properly again." There is a pause in which Dean's soul quakes with concern. Castiel furrows his brow, and tries to glance at his hunter to see what has bothered him, but then there is the _snicking_sound of scissors then the soft rustle of cloth, and Castiel murmurs in annoyance as the white dress shirt is cut around his wound. "Quit your bitchin', Cas, you can mojo it back to normal just as soon as I'm done. Just be glad I didn't do the same thing to the damn trench coat." Somehow, Dean's voice is both amused and annoyed. Castiel chooses to refrain from further comment and instead watches Bobby wander into the kitchen.

"Going to need a few stitches," Sam observes.

"Yeah," Dean agrees softly. "Can you get that ready while I clean this out?"

They work quietly at his back, and Castiel chooses to try and focus his Grace as best he can, hoping to help the healing process along. After a length, there is a final snip. Dean moves away and Sam says, "Okay, Cas, that's about the best we can do. Want to try moving to the couch?"

"Thank you, yes." He barely felt more than the strange tug and burn of the wound as the brothers stitched it up, but he notices that it feels slightly better this time when he tries to push up and away from the desk, the pain not debilitating so much as distracting. Between them, Dean and Sam manage to haul Castiel to the couch, where they sling him over its arm to avoid putting any pressure on his injury.

"So what happened?" Sam sits in the chair beside him, folding his hands together and leaning forward. His face is written with curiositiy, hazel eyes keen.

Castiel sighs. "Several of Raphael's sentries took me by surprise on my way from a battle. One of them...caught my wing." A grimace crosses his features and he glances upward. "Balthazar will be displeased. I was very careless."

"Balthazar can shove it," Dean growls vehemently, and his soul bristles.

"Gladly, darling." Dean and Sam both jump. Castiel should have warned them Balthazar was on his way to them. He glances toward his brother, whose usual smirk is offset by the unhappy tension in his eyes. "You just tell me where and when you want it, and we'll make it a date!" Balthazar leers and waggles his eyebrows suggestively. Dean gives him a _look_. "Oh, _right_," Balthazar scoffs. "Wrong angel."

As Dean fumbles for an indignant response and continues glaring at Balthazar, the other angel moves his gaze to meet Castiel's. "And just what kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into now?" he asks, clicking his tongue as he comes to kneel before Castiel. "You couldn't wait for me, eh? Just had to get your arse handed to you just as soon as you're out of my sight?" Castiel rolls his eyes heavenward, and huffs an agitated sigh. Balthazar glanced over Castiel's shoulder and whistled through his teeth. "And just _look_at that wing. Bloody hell, Cas, you're a mess. Can you even fly on that?"

"He made it here, didn't he?" Dean asks derisively before Castiel can speak. Castiel and Balthazar both turn to the hunter, who is scowling.

"Yep, he did. He made it to the most predictable place he could have chosen to flee." Balthazar shoots another glare at Castiel, and Dean rises to his feet and towards over the other angel.

"The hell is that supposed to mean? Where else would Cas go?"

Castiel should have expected this. Between Balthazar's feelings about Castiel's involvement with Dean and Dean's dislike of Balthazar, they always manage to come to this: spitting vitriol toward one another—Dean always flustered, Balthazar always smooth and mocking. Castiel looks to Sam, hoping for some assistance, but Sam's expression holds the same resignment as Castiel feels. He shrugs at Castiel apologetically, as if to say, _what can you do?_

Meanwhile, Dean and Balthazar have gone to a familiar old argument. "Since when do you give a shit, anyway?"

"He's my _brother_, you wanker."

"Right, your brother. 'Cause you were really playing the 'concerned brother' when Raphael was kicking his ass all up and down your shag pad."

Balthazar's eyes flash. He opens his mouth, and Castiel senses what he intends to say, that he intends to go off on a tirade. "Balthazar," he interrupts sharply. Balthazar cuts him a glare, and he returns it.

"You and I have an appointment to discuss this later," Balthazar says intentfully. "But right now, we need to return so I can mend that wing."

"Cas doesn't have to go anywhe—"

"_Dean_." Castiel heaves a sigh, but Dean quiets and glances at him. "Balthazar is right. Healing my wing would be easier in Heaven. I should go with him."

Dean doesn't like it. Castiel can see it on his thunderous expression, can feel the echo of it in his stormy soul. He reaches out, catches Dean's wrist and holds it a moment. Dean's lips thin into a firm line, his eyes refusing to meet Castiel's. "I will return to you when you call for me," Castiel promises him. "It shouldn't take long for my wing to heal once my Grace has replenished."

Dean exhales sharply. "Fine, okay. Go then."

Castiel hesitates a moment, searching Dean's soul until the storm within it calms and grows still, though it is speckled with the deep indigo color of disappointment. He has no way to soothe his charge so he releases Dean's wrist, turning to raise an expectant brow at Balthazar. Balthazar smirks at him knowingly, disapproval in the shake of his head. "All right, kitten, let's fly away home."

Castiel barely has time to crinkle his brow in confusion before Balthazar grabs him and they fly.


	5. Chapter 4 The Vanishing

_**Disclaimer:**_ Nope, still don't own it.

**_A/N:_** Thanks everyone for your feedback! Enjoy.

The Vanishing

_"Return to your fortress, O prisoners of hope; even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you." _–_Zechariah 9:12_

Castiel is left alone in a warded-off citadel in one of his safe havens. His wing needs time to rest and mend, and Balthazar is…unhappy with him. Their "discussion" did not go well, as expected. Castiel still feels some of the residual sadness that he always does now whenever Balthazar is trying to make a point. He understands that his brother isn't angry at him, but he _has_upset Balthazar. He upsets his brother just as often as he does Dean and Sam, anymore.

He sighs to himself, and sits quietly within the confining space Balthazar has designed for his recovery. Balthazar has done what he could for the wing, has set the broken bone and mended the tears as best as he could. They had both been surprised to find char marks on large tufts of his feathers, some of them dripping inky residue that neither angel recognized. Castiel concludes that the residue must have, like the burns, come from the Flame when he unleashed it.

Balthazar also encouraged the healing process within his shoulder, so while the bandages and stitches that Dean placed remain, they are no longer as uncomfortable as they were. Experimentally, he flexes his wings just slightly. They twitch in painful reproach, and Castiel sighs again as he settles into his seat. Typically, he is a patient enough creature that sitting and waiting do not bother him. Even in the midst of the war, when he has so little time to _rest_, he remains patient for the most part. (He does not include moments he has become impatient with Dean in this, for he thinks that the only creature in all of Creation that has enough patience for the young hunter is the Father himself; and really, how could Castiel be blamed for impatience with such an impetuous man as Dean Winchester?)

Something is bothering him now, though.

It is not the congregation to discuss the last battle that worries him—when Balthazar left him, he claimed he had to "cover Castiel's ass" there so Castiel knows that when his brother returns, it will be with the absence of an apology, his smug smirk, and news from the lieutenants. It is not his last meeting with Dean—that actually had gone surprisingly well; and though Castiel recognizes that there are still fissures in the bond between them, he allows himself relief. Perhaps one day, he will not be rejected when he can put forth the effort to repair his relationship with his human family.

He becomes aware of a vague feeling of pain, and it takes him some time to track the hurt. As dampened as his perceptions of pain are, he is unsurprised that it takes him so long to track the pain to its origin, someplace in his chest. Where his human heart beats, he realizes, and looks inward because he knows this sensation and knows what it means. He tilts his head, turning his attention inward.

Not a prayer. A summons? Strange. If anyone is calling him, he would have suspected it to be Dean, Sam, or Bobby.

He sorts through his allies, wondering who would risk summoning him. Balthazar should have informed them already that he is detained. They always try to keep it quiet when Castiel is injured. Balthazar claims that this is the best way to boost morale; apparently, no one wants to fight for a wounded general. Castiel disagrees with this. When he fought by Anael's side, he never minded it when she was injured. If anything, it allowed himself and Uriel to take up the slack and build a united front. Balthazar had been uninterested in battle, then, although he has always been the better fighter. When they fought together in the _Before_, he and Balthazar made a fearsome team. They along with Uriel had been a force to be reckoned with in Heaven, praised far and wide for felling hordes of demons without the full force of their garrison at their disposal. Anael had looked upon them with pride brightening her Grace, then. Balthazar will never be as close to him as he once was, not anymore.

He has gotten sidetracked. He tries not to think that it is because he misses his siblings, those he has lost to the ether and those he has lost to time and distance.

He tries _very _hard not to think of the way he has had to betray them all one way or another.

He shakes himself, wincing as pain trembles through the core of him, and focuses his energy on the source of the summons. It…feels like a human. He furrows his brow wonderingly. The spell is strangely familiar. He has not experienced it since before he met Dean in his human flesh for the first time. It is the summoning that Bobby Singer found, but why would Bobby or Dean be calling him now?

He leans forward, easing his odd sense of discomfort only slightly. Dean is not calling him…and he is immediately suspicious that whoever is has implemented his charge's methods; he is strangely at ease when it _feels_ like his charge's signature brand of light, the light of a soul that spills through a summoning with the first call. Something seems to change, the glow of Heaven's light dimming around him. The warded room he hides in ripples with energy that is distinctly _other_, not of Heaven or of Earth. Castiel glances around, and his brow crinkles in consternation before he checks his own body. His hand is flickering, the white-blue that signifies his Grace bleeding through the edges of his vessel.

He jerks his hand up before his eyes and flexes it. The human vessel, which he wears into the lower areas of Heaven out of convenience more than necessity (it takes far too much energy to keep the empty vessel housed and protected in Heaven, and he can no longer leave the body Jimmy bequeathed him in death on Earth), is _fading_before his eyes as though it is being erased by Heaven's glory.

As though _he_is being eradicated, eaten away. As though he were a demon.

Castiel clambers to his feet, lips pursing as he hisses, "_Damn it_." Something is wrong. Something is terribly, terribly _wrong_. He glares at his hand, watching it as it begins to flicker not with the white-blue light of his Grace, but with something terrible and dark and of curling wisps of smoke. "This is…" He has no _idea_ what this is, and barely has time to turn inward to his Grace, stretching it out toward Balthazar's before the first sharp _tear _rips through his Grace, driving a pained groan from his throat before he can call to his brother.

_Cas? _Balthazar sends back, alarmed.

Castiel cannot answer him. He stumbles into the wall, holding out a hand blindly as though reaching for the light of his brother's presence. Blood fills his throat, and he coughs violently to dispel it. He feels his vessel's body begin to rip itself apart as if his wounded Grace was all that was holding it together. He hears someone calling to him, but the voice is very distant over the sudden echo of a thrumming bell-like voice intoning in his mind, _Castiel. It's time to come and pay me a visit, angel._

A wave of pain rolls through him, starting deep inside and moving outward, seizing him suddenly like the raw, stormy power of Raphael's Grace did the instant before his elder brother burst him apart that very first time in Chuck Shurley's home. He manages to look up, eyes wide with unspeakable terror, just as he realizes that something has used Dean to breach Heaven…to pull Castiel _out_.

Castiel realizes he can no longer hear through his vessel's ears, and cannot hear the thrashing sound of his wings or the sound of Dean's name, a broken, desperate sound that struggles out of his throat. Then his poisoned Grace sizzles and stretches, and he is yanked through the undercurrent of space.

* * *

><p>He comes to sharply at the first tug of sensation, realizing quickly that it is pain that calls him forth. It has been a time since he has been knocked from consciousness, and it never gets any less disconcerting. He blinks his eyes open, staring at a strange stone floor and his feet dangling some inches above it. When he tries to shift his wings, they burn burn <em>burn<em> and his recall of the sensation flashes to the instant when the demonic hellfire first brushes against the tips of his feathers and _seizes_them, licking and gnawing until his wings were being eaten away by the inferno beneath him. He twitches and struggles against the feeling. His wings won't move, can't respond to his will to make them move.

"Are we awake now?"

The soft coo draws his attention. Castiel struggles to look up, resting his eyes upon a dusky blue gaze. To humans she would appear as a young woman…an innocent girl. Castiel sees differently. He sees the hellfire that dashes the edges of Purgatory in her eyes. He sees her true form, an ugly twisted thing combined of dark light and shadow.

"Hello, angel," she says softly. Castiel stares at her blankly. So this is Eve, the Mother of All. He twitches as she reaches out and brushes fingertips over his lips. Broken murmurs escape his throat. "Hush, now, little one. Sleep."

And Castiel knows blackness.


	6. Chapter 5 The Seeking

**_Disclaimer: _**Yep. Nope, still don't own them.

**_A/N:_** I don't even know. I just hope y'all can enjoy it, given the general state of things.

The Seeking

_"Then I will go back to my place until they admit their guilt. And they will seek my face; in their misery they will earnestly seek me."_ –Hosea 5:15

Dean's already having a crappy day when the ultimate shitstorm hits in the form of one dick angel bashing his way through Bobby's house and nearly tearing off Dean's arm in his frantic search for his missing brother, and it isn't until he hears that that Dean starts to freak out himself because really? Isn't part of Balthazar's freaking raison d'être to make sure Cas is okay or something?

Wait. He should maybe back up a minute.

The day starts with Dean waking from a none-too-pleasant dream involving heat and slickness and the softness of feathers. He is comfortable enough to admit the dream may have involved an angel. He is not comfortable enough to admit which one it may have been. Either way, he wakes up to the craptastic realization that a) his skin is flushed, sticky, and uncomfortably warm, b) he has the beginnings of a migraine induced from sleep deprivation, and c) he has a bit of a problem that he's going to need to take care of beyond the usual routine of thinking unsexy thoughts. Fuck.

He soon figures out he should have just stayed in bed.

Turns out the lead they had on ganking the Mother of freaking All—something about a Phoenix's ashes—is a dead end 'cause there's no freaking thing as a freaking mythical immortal bird. Bobby's mouth is doing that turned-down thing that it does when he's feeling considerably pissy, and he's gone back to the binge drinking he'd been about after they'd buried Rufus. Sam's no better, all puppy-eyed and lost-looking, trying to find a way to ease Bobby away from the hard shit for the sake of harm reduction to the old man's liver. The three of them had been reading up on all the lore in Bobby's place for weeks, so Dean can't bring himself to blame Bobby or Sam for their discouragement.

It only gets worse.

He's tried not to call Cas down to Earth for the 11 days it's been since Balthazar spirited him away to Heaven so he could heal up. He's thought of sending some encouraging prayers here and there, just something to let Castiel know he hopes he's doing better, but every time something stops him. The bitter aftertaste of it is something like whiskey and guilt. He doesn't reflect on it much.

But this time when Sam and Bobby suggest that he make the call because they literally know jack-shit about this whole thing, Castiel doesn't show. Dean waits for five minutes in silence before casting a half-plaintive, half-worried look skyward. "So I guess you're busy right now. Soon as you get a minute, though, Cas. We could use some help."

It isn't for another couple of hours that Dean finally feels the strange electric displacement of air and hears the rustling of fabric and feathers that he has come to associate with their wingman, and he's almost buzzed enough on the Johnny Walker he's been throwing back not to notice the difference.

He isn't buzzed enough not to notice the accented cussing going on, nor can he really ignore the hands on his shoulders that spin him around to face a distraught, obviously-stressed Balthazar. "Where is he? Didn't he come here? He must have come here." Balthazar's answering his own questions and looks like someone managed to sucker punch him and maybe steal his puppy on top of it. Dean tries not to worry.

"The hell're you talkin' about?" Dean slurs, then as an afterthought gives Balthazar a gruff shove to dislodge his grip. "'nd keep your hands off. Christ."

Balthazar only looks more pissed off, which should set off all kinds of red flags. The angel flicks Dean in the chest, and the air leaves his lungs in a whoosh as he flies backwards to collide with Bobby's sofa. The couch sails into the wall with a thump, bouncing Dean up twice before he manages to settle to stillness and he realizes he's now covered in whiskey. He glares sharply at the angel, only to see Balthazar pacing the length of the room, his hand hovering over every surface but not quite touching—like he's scanning over the place with his palm.

Before Dean can ask what the hell he's doing, Balthazar spits a venomous curse and whirls on him. "He didn't come here? How could he not have come here—he's always here. It's the one blasted constant he has, why wouldn't he be…" He trails off, and Dean realizes that this is the closest he has ever seen Balthazar—who's always so cockily unflappable and who brushes aside a serious situation with a joke and a playboy smile—to falling completely apart. Obviously something terrible is going on, and Dean tries to shake the cobwebs of his alcohol-induced haze away so he can focus properly.

"Hey. Hey!" he says gruffly, reaching out to snatch the material at the angel's shoulder as Balthazar moves to pass him on another weird hand-scan circuit. Balthazar spins to him, practically snarling, and yeah—Dean should probably remember that he can't exactly act the same way he would with Cas around other angels, 'cause they're not all as patient as Cas is (and Dean knows how limited Castiel's patience with him actually is, so he's kind of lucky he hasn't gotten his ass smited—smote—whatever, yet) and he's just drunk enough to make a good idea out of running off at the mouth. "Seriously, dude. What are you on about?" Dean asks, trying to remain calm and not somehow incite Balthazar's volatile temper. This is an unfamiliar practice for him, but he thinks maybe he's managing to somehow do it right, because Balthazar stops moving like a madman long enough to pin him with a glare.

"It's Cas, you fuckwit. I can't find Cassy."

And even though he's hearing the broken quality of Balthazar's voice, that raw, terrible fear that wrenches his own gut whenever Sammy's in some kind of trouble, he still manages to see red. "You lost Cas?" Dean accuses, now fixing Balthazar with his own Winchester-patented Glare o' Doom. God, as if Dean doesn't already have enough of a reason to fucking hate Balthazar's fucking guts. As if he wasn't already worried as hell about Castiel. "How the hell could you lose Cas? I thought you were keeping an eye on him while he healed or whatever."

Balthazar looks mildly guilty, but quickly covers the expression with one of disdain. "In case you forgot, precious, Cassy's leading an army in Heaven. Someone had to make sure all the grunts kept up with fighting the good fight and all. I left Cassy in a warded chamber, but…somehow he was summoned away."

"So where the hell is he?" Dean growls, gritting his teeth.

He realizes it's a stupid question even before Balthazar snarks back, "If I knew that, Winchester, I wouldn't be here." The usual mirth he has in his eyes whenever he engages Dean in one of their little back-and-forths is replaced by raw, animal desperation. The realization that the angel is worried about Castiel is enough to make Dean's mouth go dry, and his buzz dies a premature death. Balthazar scrubs a hand through his hair and goes on, "I thought—he was—the summoning. It wasn't you?"

If something didn't catch in his brain at the accusatory tone in Balthazar's voice, Dean knows he'd be more than a little bit pissed at what the angel is implying—that he somehow has something to do with the sudden Silver Alert on Cas. He tries to remain patient, really really tries because he remembers the look in Castiel's eyes the last time he and Balthazar had been at each other's throats. He takes a deep breath in, and releases it in a heavy sigh. "No," he enunciates slowly, "we didn't summon Cas. I wouldn't do that, not when he was hurt."

He wonders why he feels so defensive, and gets annoyed when Balthazar latches onto it and snorts derisively. "Right, because you've never pushed him past his limits before," he says acidly. Before Dean can take proper offense to this statement, Balthazar leans in close, his eyes wild and dangerous like a wolf challenging a threat to its pack. "You and I both know, Dean Winchester, that if you needed something, really needed something, you'd only have to push a little and Cassy would give you his whole world—he can't deny you anything." He leans back, and the fierce expression on his face vanishes, replaced by something more urgent, like he's just remembered that he doesn't have time to be up on his soapbox.

Dean lets the moment slide, noting it down for later attack 'cause not even the brothers who seem to have Castiel's back get away with that shit, and moves to the problem at hand. "You said he was summoned? So can we track the spell that was used to summon him?"

"I tried that," Balthazar says, glaring sharply at Dean from the corner of his eye like Dean's a disgusting insect and Balthazar's fighting down the urge to squish it because he's an angel and he's supposed to love all God's creatures no matter how vile. "I can't track the spell or his Grace. He is…I've lost him."

He actually sounds kind of devastated, and that really fucking worries Dean. The angels are supposed to be the top of the food chain here, right under God and apparently Death, if the guy's words in Chicago are to be believed. If Balthazar's looking hopeless, then something's seriously fucked and Cas is in trouble. Dean swallows, his throat thick and dry like someone just stuffed it with wads of cotton.

"So where do we look?" Dean asks urgently.

"_We_ don't," Balthazar replies evenly, his menace only belied by the tightness around his eyes. "First, Cassy would _kill me_ if so much as a single hair on your hollow little head was moved a fraction out of place. And second—and more importantly to me, at least—if I can't find Cassy in Heaven and I can't find him on Earth, then there are only a few places left that he can possibly be, and neither are fit for a living, breathing human such as yourself."

It takes a minute, then Dean's eyes widen with apprehension. "You mean Hell, don't you? You think Cas is in Hell."

"Cookie for you," Balthazar replies flatly. "He may also be in the Between. So I have to be very careful about finding him—and I certainly don't need to be looking after any humans while I'm searching."

Dean fixes the angel with a piercing look. "So maybe we can't _go_ but we can still help." Balthazar gives him what Dean thinks is the flattest, most condescending stare he's ever seen—and having known Bobby Singer, Dean's seen plenty of those. He scowls and adds pointedly, "He's _our_ family too, Balthazar." _Don't be a dick,_ he thinks, half-hoping the angel hears though he intends to go about this as nicely as possible.

Balthazar stares at him, then gives a jerky, abrupt nod. "You should keep looking for information on the Mother of All."

"What, like how to kill her?" Dean asks. "'Cause we kinda already dead-ended on that one with some Phoenix-thing."

Balthazar had been turning away, squaring his shoulders as if for flight. At Dean's words, he jerks and twists around to stare at the hunter. "What did you just say?"

Dean blinks, furrowing his brow at Balthazar's strange expression. "We found something about the ashes of a Phoenix burning the Mother…" he says carefully, watching the growing astonishment on Balthazar's expression.

Balthazar's eyes narrow as he murmurs, "The Arisen…" Then he shifts through the air and winks out of sight.

Dean is tempted to throw up his hands in exasperation 'cause really? Angels fucking _suck_ at proper bow-outs. But then he remembers Castiel, and he blanches as he turns.

"Sammy!" he calls up the stairs. "We got a Mother to kill and an angel to find!"


	7. Chapter 6 The Mother

**_Disclaimer: _**I don't own them.

**_A/N: _**Thanks everyone for your reviews so far! I've been trying to get to the point where I can reply via PM...I think it may be time to consult a professional so I can do more than post without double-checking to make sure stories look okay...anyway, sorry it took a little while for this update. I wasn't really sure how much I wanted this chapter to reveal yet... Hope you enjoy! :D

The Mother

_"The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down."_ -Proverbs 14:1

Reality is a series of broken fragments, sounds that aren't quite _sounds_ so much as ripples in the intricate web of energy that the angel can sense around him like the ether of Heaven. His world, for a time, is made up of shadows and dust, so when Castiel slowly becomes aware again, he finds it to be a surreal, confounding sensation that he can only describe as he would describe a heavy fog on the edges of the sea—hazy, thick, and slow. At first, the angel cannot fathom anything but the strange, echoing sounds of distant rain and a cacophony of soft whispers in the back of his mind. When his awareness spreads beyond this, he becomes aware of the strange, pinprick tingling of numbness overtaking his human vessel's limbs.

One by one, feeling returns to pieces of himself that he would rather have left unaware. He can instinctually recognize the pain yet to come, and tries to distract himself. First, he rouses his awareness of himself—of Castiel, Angel of the Lord who governs the Fifth Day and protects travelers, who guides humans through great change and solitude, who had been chosen to raise the Righteous Man from Perdition. He is Castiel. He is friend to the Righteous Man, Dean and to the Boy with the Demon Blood, Sam. _Cas_.

Soon after he knows himself, he knows _pain_—sharp, burning agony ripping through the center of him and rising to the surface. It tears at his wings, chokes his Grace, and smolders in every corner of him. Castiel struggles against it, and tries very hard not to move which only seems to exacerbate the fury of the furnace of hellfire churning inside. The angel gasps, the sound a wet huff of heat from his lips, and he is almost so distracted by the inferno that burns _so slowly_ against his veins and the light that makes up his true self that he nearly misses the soft chuckle against his ear.

"Hello again, angel. How are you feeling?"

Castiel tries to jerk away, but his vessel will not obey his command. Instead, he forces his eyes open despite the fact that they feel weighted with lead, and his gaze flicks toward the deceptively soft face near his own.

He tries to speak, but his tongue is thick and his throat dry so all that emerges is a soft rasp of air dragging over the syllables, "You are Eve."

The Mother of All smiles. "I see you haven't forgotten anything since I summoned you. That is encouraging, little one."

Castiel calls upon his Grace, _pulls_ at it until it responds with a flickering light which he then tries to expel toward the abomination before him. His Grace flails at his attempt, screams at him as though he has done it some grave injury and he no longer has the strength to hold his head up let alone fight with his essence. Castiel sags under the weight of his fruitless labors, and his chin sinks to his chest.

Eve's soft, warm hand comes to cup his face and she tilts it up until she can meet his eyes again. Her eyes are full of wrath and scorn. "You're too weak and far too young to hurt me, Castiel. Please remember that, and try not to overexert yourself. I need you, after all."

Voice thick like gravel but quiet like shadows, Castiel demands, "H-how could I possibly be of use to you?"

Eve smiles, and there is something in her expression that is feral like a wild animal. Castiel has seen this expression before, in the face of his own charge when Dean was still feral and drunk of Hell's decadence. Dean will never remember—because Castiel will not allow him to—the way he had attacked the angel and had ripped at Castiel's wings the moment Castiel declared his intent to raise Dean from the bowels of Perdition. Swallowing thickly over a lump that forms in his vessel's throat, Castiel watches Eve with weary, uncalm eyes.

"You have no idea what you are, do you?" Eve asks in soft undertones, though her eyes remain wild and her intent can be nothing but malice.

"I am an angel," Castiel replies matter-of-factly.

"Oh, but you're far more than that." Eve smiles, and her eyes are unfathomable as she strokes Castiel's cheek. "You were brought back to life by the Father who abandoned you. You are _Arisen_. You are the only angel to ever know such a thing as resurrection. And because of this, your Father has damned you to an eternity alone." She hums thoughtfully and traces her fingertips across his features. "You deserve better than that. You deserve a Mother who will love you, not a Father who will betray you and leave you without the love a beloved child deserves." He fights weakly to turn his face away, and immediately tunes out the Mother's voice. He knows better than to listen to an abomination that is no better than a demon. Eve's words are of no import to him. They have little value and are simply the words of a temptress.

"I'm an angel," he repeats stubbornly. _Quit while you're ahead,_ Dean's voice echoes in his mind. "You will not sway me."

Eve's fingers stutter to stillness, then retreat from his skin. Ice overtakes her voice, chilling his blood and bones. "I'm sorry you feel that way, but it doesn't matter. I don't need your consent or your allegiance. I only need _you_."

Curiosity gets the better of Castiel, as it often does. He pointedly does not reflect on the number of times his curiosity about something (_green eyes, humanity, choice, freedom_) has landed him into trouble. "What do you intend to do with me?" he asks, not fearful but merely thoughtful.

Eve backs away, and Castiel notices for the first time the room that he is entrapped within. Sigils cover the walls, ancient magic that whispers of betrayal and traps. Flared out behind him, Castiel's wings are stapled to the wall lying against a large trap bearing his Enochian name. That at least accounts for the flames that are writhing underneath his feathers and eating away at his flesh. A metal tray nearby holds more of the silver blades that had been used to pin him in place, and Eve saunters to it to snatch up a blade with a devilish gleam in her eyes.

She inspects the blade, tests its weight and balance before she contemplates Castiel and gives him a brilliant smile. "_The Arisen shall inherit the treasures of Earth, and his wings shall be wings of the divine stained with the taint of the unhallowed,_" Eve recites, her gaze affixed to his as she comes nearer. And there, Castiel can see it again. The unholy fire that burns behind her human eyes, the creature that hides underneath her human skin. She is a terrible thing, lacking beauty and the presence of his Father. She is not of Hell, but she has none of Heaven in her. Eve reaches out to card the tip of the blade she holdes through his feathers. Then she plunges it forth, pierces it through and through until it buries itself into the wall.

It is not unlike the wound he received in Heaven, though the pain is dulled by the other tortures he endures alongside it. He clenches his jaw against the pain, withholds the groan that rumbles in his chest like he's hiding his Grace. He refuses to let her have the pleasure of seeing his agony. Eve watches him closely, catalogues the way his eyes narrow at her and the way his jaw locks. He knows that she will explore other ways to break him down, but it has become obvious that she needs him alive for something and pain is merely a state of being to be tolerated.

He breathes deeply, counts out each breath until the pain begins to recede, then looks up as Eve gives him another insincerely warm look. _Purgatory rests within a world of lies,_ Castiel recalls a brother saying. Eve brushes her hand over his feathers, tugs on a fistful to ignite sharp stabs of pain. "_And that which was once pure and is now tainted will become the weapon to destroy One or All,_" Eve concludes while she watches him. Castiel has no idea what she is quoting but he dislikes the implications. "You and I are going to accomplish much together, little one. So." Another tug and another flare of pain. Castiel closes his eyes. Lips brush against his ear as Eve leans in and whispers, "Just stay with me, angel. This may hurt a tad."

_Stay with me, Cas._

Castiel breathes.


	8. Chapter 7 The Keeper

**Disclaimer:** No, I still don't own anything recognizable.

**A/N:** Um. Nothing to say about this, really. Except that I love Bal and Crowley. Writing them is simultaneously fun and hard. Enjoy!

The Keeper

_"But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in You."_ -Psalm 39:7

Balthazar searches the corners of the Between relentlessly, desperately. He dips his wings beneath the Falls in the outermost edges of Heaven's realms, the boundaries between the Golden Kingdom and the Between that spreads over the layers between the worlds. The angel slides through space and casts out, seeking any sign of his brother's presence through the first circles of the Between for what feels like ages. His wings grow heavy with worry and despair as time passes; Balthazar knows that Castiel would have called to him if he were in range. Something must have...but no, he will not let himself think that way.

He soon realizes he cannot cover all of it alone, he calls Rachel and Castiel's other allies to attention and sends them off to various parts of the empty spaces between Heaven, Earth, and Hell. Balthazar knows Cassy would kill him to send any of their brothers under his command into Hell. Fortunately, Balthazar also has a few questionable alliances that his dear baby brother doesn't know about, or at the very least keeps his disapproval of to a quiet murmur. (Good thing, too. A righteous Castiel is a nuisance, simply put.) And so, after he puts Rachel to rights and gets her and Castiel's miniature army on their merry way, Balthazar starts his own crusade.

He checks in discreetly on the Winchesters, not bothering to uncloak himself as he peeks at their goings-on. Castiel would want him to keep an eye on the little wankers, after all. Daddy-dearest knows neither Dean nor Sam has the sense He gave a gosling. Balthazar counts them lucky they have Castiel and Bobby Singer to keep their sorry arses alive. When Balthazar looks in on them now, they are under Bobby's close supervision and diligently working through a formidable-looking tower of books. He nods in satisfaction, and flits off through the currents his wings carve through space and time to make his way downstairs.

Balthazar has only been partway to the Pit before, even during the time he has spent exploring the spoils of freedom. He is fortunate not to have to Descend this time, either. Balthazar focuses his Grace and casts out. Lazily, he files through locations and faces until he hones in on the one that he seeks. His wings shift and carry him to an upscale penthouse in Manhattan. He glances about the place for a short moment, not surprised to find the absence of sigils painting the walls. Balthazar is an expected and frequent guest in any of these safehouses.

Robert Johnson is playing on an old record machine in the corner and that, frankly? Is a bit tacky. Not to mention predictable. Balthazar's lips curl in distaste. If there is one thing he detests, it is predictability. Even before his vacation, he had always been the wild force of nature on the yang of Castiel's calm calculating yin. There had always been a reason Anael had kept the pair of them together. It is Balthazar's job to look after Castiel—to be his big brother and to make sure that when Castiel is off trying to shelter every human soul within the cover of his wings, someone is also there protecting Castiel.

Balthazar admits to himself that for a time he'd forgotten his job. Well, his and...no, actually, only Balthazar's. _He'd_ left them a time ago, and word from Castiel is that _he's_ dead.

"Reminiscing about Baby Brother, are we? And here I thought _I_ might have been the one putting that twinkle in your eye."

Balthazar paints on his most provocative smirk. The demons aren't the only ones who can play the sexually-ambiguous card. "Ah, don't worry, darling. Still plenty of lovin' left for you." He waggles his eyebrows at Crowley, who rolls his eyes in response as he takes a pull from his tumbler of scotch.

"You're such a tease," Crowley says as he rises from behind his desk and quirks a brow at Balthazar. "Well? You planning on telling me why you're interrupting my morning-cap, or did you think it'd be fun to share quaint little family stories?"

"I'm here about Cas," Balthazar says plainly, which is uncommon enough for him that Crowley's brows shoot up and his forehead crinkles in curiosity. "I don't suppose you've heard anything about our blue-eyed boy gone missing?"

"Nope, can't say I have," Crowley says lightly with a half-shrug. "Last I checked I wasn't on Pretty Boy Blue's VIP list. What, Cas got himself into trouble again? Color me surprised."

Balthazar doesn't have time for games or squabbling. He squares his shoulders and fixes Crowley with his most wrathful expression. He likes to think he sees Crowley give a minute flinch. "I don't think I need to remind you that the reason you're still alive is that Cas can't find a decent way to kill you that doesn't involve springing your little trap, and I rather enjoy our little union of convenience." He bares his teeth slightly, glowering at Crowley. "So it might benefit you to keep that pretty mouth shut unless it's fixing to say something useful."

Crowley blinks, then smirks. He tips his glass toward Balthazar, "Wound a little tight there, mate." Balthazar exhales slowly, and drags a hand through his hair as he wonders when Castiel tainted _him_ with that damned righteousness. "So, Castiel's gone and we don't have any idea where he might be. And I assume you want me to check with my old union boys downstairs to see if anyone's caught a whiff of angel?" Balthazar waits because he knows that Crowley has more to say. "And what's sweetening my side of the honey pot, eh Bal? I've _got_ my insurance policy, I don't exactly need Castiel around to keep breathing."

Balthazar smirks because that had been what he was expecting. "Cassy-cat is the only one who has access to the little weapon you and I taught him to build. Without him, Raphael wins."

Crowley's mouth curls with distaste. He's quick to catch on, Balthazar will grant him that. "And dear old Lucy's back for Hell. I get it, Bal." His eyes winkle with devilish mirth as he immediately smirks at Balthazar in a way he knows the angel hates. "You'd make a hell of a demon, clever mind like that. All right, Bal," he says then, leaning back to settle the tumbler down. "I'll make a few calls, kill a few underlings. We'll see what comes of it."

"Thanks so much," Balthazar says with a mocking smile, and then Crowley vanishes into the shades of Hades. Balthazar doesn't linger in the penthouse, having his own search to return to.

_Hold out for me, Brother. I'm on my way._


	9. Chapter 8 The Fall

_**Disclaimer:**_ Yeah, nothing at all is any different from before. I still don't own the boys. Wish to hell I did sometimes, though. They'd be in much safer hands and, y'know, wouldn't have to worry about _losing everything/everyone they love_ all the _damn time_.

_**A/N:**_ So, my Latin is a little rusty. Not gonna lie, even after taking eight courses between high school and college that crap just flies out of your brain when you move onto a different language. So please forgive the roughness to the Latin here. I intend to come back and correct it once I check with my old Latin tutor.

The Fall

"_Multitudes who sleep in the dust of the earth will awake: some to everlasting life, others to shame and everlasting contempt."_ -Daniel 12:2

Dean feels like they've been at this for days. Oh, wait. That's probably because they _have_. Between him, Sam, and Bobby, they've managed to cover almost all the materials Bobby's collected and preserved like an obsessive-compulsive, paranoid freakshow hoarder for the last several decades. Seriously, Dean thinks that if half this crap wasn't as useful as it's proven to be, he and Sam would have had to check Bobby into some sort of rehab center _ages_ ago for this shit. It's nigh ridiculous how many ancient tomes and musky scrolls the man has kept.

It's been almost three days since Balthazar popped in with the news about Castiel, and Dean is growing weary in his frantic search for any information they can use to find the Mother, because Balthazar had implied that to find that would help them find Cas. Well, Dean _thinks_ Balthazar implied that. He's choosing to believe it, anyway, because if Balthazar actually sent him on a needle-in-a-haystack hunt to _distract_ him while Balthazar sought the missing angel—well…Dean may have to kill him. And he'll make it slow and painful, an art he's had forty years to perfect.

He _should_ be out there looking for Cas himself, even _if_ Balthazar basically had said there was nowhere Dean could _go_ that Balthazar hadn't already _been_. He knows that he's just feeling useless and even worse, _helpless_, but that's how Dean operates. He can come up with a decent plan on the fly, but really he's always been the _shoot first, ask questions later_ sort of guy and when it comes to someone he cares about going missing? He's pretty much the _seek victim, kill perpetrator_ sort of guy. Dean really, _really_ wants a shot at whoever has Castiel. He worries constantly that it's Raphael, but he doesn't think that Raphael would put Castiel somewhere that Balthazar wouldn't be able to sense him. Raphael seems more of the nature to destroy and obliterate something that stands in his way immediately.

Dean doesn't even _let_ it cross his mind that _that_ may be the reason Balthazar can't sense Castiel, that he could possibly be nothing but a smoky shadow of wings pressed into the floors of Heaven.

Pointedly keeping that _out_ of his mind has only increased the weight pressing it down into exhaustion. Dean holds a book in his lap, and reads the same passage for the tenth time in a row before realizing the words are blurring together and he doesn't understand it at _all_. Heaving a sigh, he tosses the book onto the coffee table and collapses back against the cushions of the couch before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sam, I don't know what the hell I'm looking at."

Sam looks up, and Dean doesn't even need to glance at him to know he's wearing his puzzled-sad-puppy face, all pinched brow and downturned mouth. "Lemme see," Sam says, and Dean finally does lower his hand from his face to gesture toward the book he was investigating as Sam drags his chair over and swoops up the tome. Sam reads over it once, then again, and soon the little crinkle between his brow spreads to tighten his entire expression in dissatisfaction. Dean frowns as well, because he _knows_ that look.

"Aw, man. What is it?"

"I think…I think this is what we might have been looking for. Maybe." Sam turns and carries the book back to the desk where he'd been working, holds it in one hand as he shuffles through the faded, crinkled documents he'd been reading through. "Dean. Here." Sam gets this face like he might be getting lucky, and Dean knows what that means too. With a slight groan, he pushes to his feet and joins his brother. Sam is practically vibrating now, leaning over one of the sheets upon which a list of sigils is drawn. He lays the book down with it, pointing to a sigil inscribed on the page that Dean had been reading. "This. This here. It reads _Arisen_. Didn't you say Balthazar had mentioned that?"

"Yeah, Sammy. Doesn't mean it has anything to do with Cas and where he's gone." And try as he might, Dean can't keep that little squirmy thing in his gut from rearing its ugly head at the mention of his missing angel. He chews the corner of his mouth as he tries to refocus his attention on whatever Sam's going on about. Yeah, Balthazar had said to keep looking for ways to kill the Mother, but no, Dean isn't feeling too motivated to do anything other than start tearing any ugly, evil thing he can find apart until one of them reveals the angel.

Sam's giving him a _look_. Bitchface #18, the one where Sam doesn't like whatever he thinks Dean's thinking about. Wears it a lot, actually, now that Dean's thinking about it. "Dean," Sam starts, his tone caught somewhere between patient and irritated.

"Yeah, I know." And Dean _does_. He knows that it's just as important to find information on the Mother, Balthazar had kind of mentioned that so he's willing to do it, but… "Okay, so tell me more." He gestures toward the sigils, wishes Bobby hadn't had to go out for supplies 'cause Bobby and Sam together? Perfect research team.

Sam starts going through the passage, dissecting the Latin with his ginormous cranium faster than Dean could even read the damned thing. "Okay, so this is talking about the Arisen and how it's created. Mmm…" Sam squints at the script, translating then checking again to confirm the translation. He crinkles his brow, not quite confused but more like puzzling out the mystery of the Latin. "There is a lot about the importance of three repetitions, to create and to destroy. Kind of vague besides that. Oh—" He turns the book and points to a line from the passage. Dean stares at it, then at his brother, slowing raising a brow in silent query. "This last line. Did you even read this Dean?" Sam looks up at him, and Dean's blank stare is all the response Sam needs before he's rolling his eyes and shoves the book under Dean's nose. Dean startles, grabs the book, and glares at Sam for a moment before following his brother's pointed gesture and turning his eyes down to the last line on the page.

"_Innatus immundis arma fiet. Et cinis matrem pergent."_

It takes Dean a moment, his mouth tracing the words as he reads them and works through the translation in his head. "The impure arisen will be the weapon. And the ashes shall purify the Mother?"

"Close enough," Sam says fondly, then raises both brows as he waits for it to click.

Dean does a half-second later. "This is talking about the freaking Phoenix, isn't it? This is our way to finding a weapon to kill the Mother of All."

Sam smirks at him. It's a dim thing, hesitant but hopeful. "If we can figure out what this means, we may be able to _make_ the phoenix ashes. We may have gotten it wrong with thinking we needed to kill one." He starts flipping to the next page, scribbling down notes on the tattered notebook he's been using. He glances surreptitiously up at Dean. "Hey, we might need Balthazar's help if I can figure this out. You wanna call him?"

Dean shoot Sam a look, catches his eye and smiles in silent thanks. Sam knows he's anxious to hear if there's any news about Cas. Dean's been anxious to hear anything from the angel since Balthazar took him, wounded and bleeding, back to Heaven to recuperate. Leaving Sam to continue translating and rubbing at his heavy eyes, Dean goes to make the call. He hopes that Balthazar has good news for him, hopes that he's found a lead to Cas. He keeps the quiet squirmy rodent in his chest quiet, forces it to submission and wills it dead. Because there's no way Cas is anything less than alive and smiting. That's the only thing Dean has faith in right now.

* * *

><p>Castiel has divided his thoughts into two sections. One is trained on a pair of viridian eyes twinkling with devilish mirth, and a voice that urges him to <em>just hang on, Cas. Hang on for me.<em> The other lazily analyzes every motion that the knife sinking into his vessel's flesh makes, cataloguing each sigil carved into him with an impassive gaze. The Mother has finished with his wings by now. She has left him stapled, broken, and bleeding against the wall of her special room, and he feels fire lance through each hollow bone as inky plumes begin to fall away and gather in dusty piles upon the floor. The pain digs deeper each passing moment but when he trains his thoughts on discovering what the sigils mean and what magick they are meant for, he can manage.

Eve is deceptively surgical as she tugs his tie loose, spreads open the white shirt and bends to her task. Castiel can see the gleam in her eyes, however—something wild and almost demonic, though he knows that she is not like any creature he has known. Eve had been correct when she had stated that she is more powerful than Castiel. He has tried several times to discreetly cast out with his Grace and it has recoiled each time, quivering and curling like a wounded animal. He cannot call his brothers for help, and he cannot escape on his own. Not without some sort of plan.

So he makes due with attempting to discover what Eve is about. Balthazar often teases him for his inquisitive mind, but Castiel finds that it is quite useful to be curious and knowledgeable—especially in times like this. He recognizes several of the symbols that Eve is carving into his skin, and recalls that they are of black magick born of ancient studies, the same that had led human science to the failed explorations of alchemy. He knows that the symbols are meant to aid in metamorphosis, but he does not know what Eve thinks he is going to transform into. She keeps murmuring to herself while she works, sentiments like _such a pretty thing you are, not nearly what you will be_ and _those feathers will be so lovely lined with fire and coated in ash_.

Perhaps Eve means to burn Castiel's Grace out. That would certainly explain the low-simmering waves of magma that have coiled around his essence. He feels feverish and his entire being aches distantly. Eve pinches her tongue in the corner of her lips, a gesture that is so oddly childlike that Castiel wonders if it is a memory of the flesh that the Mother has inhabited. The poor girl is burned so far from her existence that Castiel cannot even trace her name in the remnants of her body.

He flinches back against the cold stone he hangs upon as Eve leans forward to lap at a freshly-cut symbol. "Just as sweet as honey," she remarks happily, her eyes flicking up to meet his. "That should finish that, angel." She smiles at him, and leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. "You've been such a good child. It breaks my heart to have to do this to you."

Castiel cannot help but scoff. "You have no heart." _Atta boy,_ Dean's voice lauds him in the back of his mind. Castiel fights back a smile. Even in his thoughts, Dean appreciates abrasiveness in the face of evil; it would appear that Castiel is inheriting a bit of that foolishness as well.

Eve's smile sours and turns ugly, reflects her true self for a short moment. The silver blade that she had used to carve the five circles into his abdomen suddenly pierces through his shoulder and the sensitive joint of his wing. He bites down on the cry that trembles on his tongue, bites into his lip until he tastes the tangy copper of blood. "You should mind your manners, little one," Eve admonishes him quietly, then turns away to leave him wallowing in his misery.

Castiel releases the grip he has on his lower lip, and takes in deep gasps of air as his wing joint screams at him to remove the knife impaling it. He tries to still himself but the pain keeps smoldering, and something in his stomach churns even as his Grace starts to weep from effort and exhaustion. None of it keeps him from sensing the shift in the air when he and Eve receive visitors, though.

Castiel forces his eyes open, unaware that he had closed them, and waits for his blacked-out vision to clear before he glances up. There are perhaps a dozen creatures standing in the room now, moving to form a semicircle around the wounded angel in the guises of mortal humans. Castiel can see through each facade, and marks that the creatures are all Alphas, the most powerful of the Mother's children.

The angel begins to worry.

"My children," Eve says, her eyes trained on Castiel. "We have work to do. Be prepared to welcome your new brother." She turns to glance at the creatures over her shoulder. There seems to be a collective assent, all their eyes bright and fixed upon Eve. Unlike her children, Castiel tenses at Eve's words. She smiles when she sees him stiffen. "I told you, angel. You will be my greatest weapon. Are you ready for this?"

Castiel opens his mouth to interject, but Eve reaches up and wraps her slender fingers around the blade she had buried through his shoulder. In one swift, breath-stealing motion, she pulls the blade free of his shoulder and buries it into his heart. Castiel's eyes go wide as the blade pierces not only the human heart that beats within his vessel's chest, but also the ailing Grace that is hiding within him. The pain _explodes_, and light spills from every wound and around the edges of every one of the torturous blades stuck through his human form and his angelic one.

Dean's voice rises in his mind, calls comfort to him, then stutters out as merciful darkness finally, _finally_ reaches for him and tugs him into its restful embrace.


	10. Chapter 9 The Smoldering

**Disclaimer: **Still own nothing recognizable.

**A/N:** Um. So. I'm back! Sorry guys, had to deal with a little trip to the ER there for a minute because apparently, this year? I'm _not supposed to go out-of-doors_. I had to visit the ER for an overnight observation due to heat exhaustion a few weeks ago and for treatment around severe sun poisoning/heat exhaustion this time. Sorry for the wait, and the lack of length. The chapters got a little meh on where they wanted to break there for a minute. Enjoy!

Also, thank you everyone for your kind reviews! It means a lot to see feedback saying someone is actually reading this and _liking_it. :)

The Smoldering

"_Then you call upon the name of your god, and I will call upon the name of the LORD, and the God who answers by fire, he is God." And all the people answered, 'It is well spoken.'"_–1 Kings 18:24

Balthazar searches the places he can reach on the borders of the Between like an angel possessed with the purpose of his assigned mission. He searches everywhere, casts out a web of Grace to seek any signs of Castiel because he _has _to find him, he absolutely _must_.

In the back of his mind, beating a tattoo into his thoughts, the word _Arisen _stirs. Balthazar resolutely ignores it, making a Winchester-toned effort at denial and quite possibly giving the boys a run for their money.

When he runs out of places to search and is still awaiting news from the other search parties he's assigned, Balthazar checks on the warded room from which Castiel had vanished. His younger brother would have chided him for not paying closer attention to the room before—Castiel is nothing if not thorough and inquisitive, a perfect tactician on the battlefield and a decent tracker when need be. Castiel would have searched that warded room relentlessly until he found the fatal flaw that allowed for the breach into the most sacred protected regions of Heaven. No, not _fatal_—Balthazar won't let himself think that way. There isn't any proof that Castiel had been killed, Balthazar is confident that no one would want to kill the leader of the rebellion in Heaven outside Raphael.

_Arisen…_

Oh, blast it all.

Balthazar shakes himself and focuses on the wards coating the walls. He stares at the runes until his vision blurs, but he can find no errors in the careful inscriptions of his eldest brothers' names and the protective spells cast from them. Castiel had been looking over his shoulder, after all. Whatever had breached these alls had not done so because the wards were wrong.

So. That narrows down the possibilities a fair stretch.

There aren't many creatures old enough or powerful enough to contend with the might of the angels. Fewer still that can temporarily neutralize warding sigils that bear the names of the archangels, Heaven's mightiest and most powerful. Balthazar tries not to think of the implications as he turns his attentions to his next clues—the weapons. The celestial items had been left behind in the angelic snatch-and-grab. That they are so valuable to any who wield them and were left so thoughtlessly does not escape Balthazar's notice. He ignores the chill that sweeps through his Grace as he wonders why anyone would ignore such a quantity of power to focus on Castiel.

It doesn't matter anyway, Balthazar knows. He can't do anything for Cassy if he can't bloody _find _him.

Balthazar takes his time and examines each weapon closely. He recalls that Castiel had mentioned using a weapon to resolve the battle with Raphael's soldiers when they had ambushed him. Balthazar seeks the small metallic cylinder that contains the Perpetual Flame, organizes the other weapons into hidey-holes he twists out of ether and Grace as he makes his way through them categorically. When Balthazar finds the cylinder hidden beneath a wispy, silver shroud, he snatches it up with a triumphant, "_Aha_!"

The moment his Grace comes into contact with the Flame's mystical presence, something inky and dark curls around the edges of his essence. He feels it to his core like a poison, twisting inside him and making him roil with illness. It tastes of brimstone, has the same bitter burn as hellfire.

Balthazar throws the cylinder as though the Flame it holds is digging into his flesh. It is that very instant that he understands—and in this same instant, Dean Winchester calls out to him.

_Balthazar, you sonuvabitch! Get your feathery ass down here right the hell now!_

Balthazar catches his breath, gathers his wings up to hold him, and shifts sideways into flight.

He hasn't even fully gotten his wings folded before the elder Winchester is on him, clenching fistfuls of his dark jacket as though the little hunter can actually harm the angel.

"Why didn't you _say _anything?" Dean demands hotly. "You should have _told _us!"

Balthazar doesn't budge when Dean tries to shove him. He, unlike Castiel, doesn't care if the fool does himself any injury while trying to subdue an angel. Ignoring Dean as he starts ranting again, Balthazar risks a glance about the room beyond them.

Sam is standing near the desk, palms up in a partially-placating, partially-pleading manner as he tries to reason with his boorish, pigheaded brother to _please let the angel go before he decides to kill you, Dean_. There are a number of books strewn over the dusk and the threadbare little sofa, all of similar origin. Balthazar doesn't need to see their contents to know what the Winchesters have found. He'd suspected the same thing ever since Dean had mentioned the Phoenix.

Balthazar finally gets fed up with the annoying little pipsqueak hanging off of him and flicks Dean in the chest, effectively sending him stumbling backwards several steps into Sam's awkward hold as the younger brother catches his senior in an awkward heap of limbs. Balthazar isn't in the mood to laugh at the picture they paint.

"Bloody hell," he murmurs to himself, and because it just feels do damned _inadequate_, adds, "Bugger, blast, and bloody bollocks!" It's out there now, no use in hiding from it. Balthazar feels the weight of Dean and Sam's angry, curious stares as he thinks aloud, "They're going to do it. They're actually going to—they've already started."

He feels numb, disconnected. He feels lost and alone and wonders how long Castiel has been feeling this way, wonders how his brother never noticed the poison being slowly fed into his Grace. For a moment, he fights the urge to almost _blame _Castiel, for surely he _must have _noticed _something_.

Balthazar startles when he realizes that the answer is staring him in the face. He growls as holy wrath fills the void the hellish poison had left in the core of him. The Winchesters tense and ease away as he stalks toward them, leaning neatly into a predatory stance.

"If it weren't for _you two_," Balthazar scowls. "If he weren't _your _damned guardian. He's my brother, he's the _best _of us all! This shouldn't be happening to _him_."

"You're blaming this on _us_?"

And Dean is outraged, of course. Poor little Righteous Man, too scared of his feelings to take ownership of any of them and too damned proud to worry for anyone that doesn't hold the name Winchester, or perhaps Singer. Balthazar has no pity for him. This time it's _Balthazar's _brother in need of help, _Balthazar's _brother who's alone and hurt and being made into something _else_, something so entirely _other_—

"I have to find him," Balthazar says. "There's only one more place I can think to look."

"Where?" Dean asks, because Dean is too damned foolish to realize when things have gotten bigger than him. Dean is a _small picture _human, he has some trouble seeing beyond his own little world unless something threatens it.

Balthazar tries to remember even _one _measly little reason his brother is so fond of these humans—then realizes he only needs to remember that for _whatever _reason Cassy is fond of them and it would hurt him if Balthazar smote the hell out of the pair this minute. He forces his vessel to take several deep breaths as he begins to plot. He is no Gabriel, and for a moment he wishes his elder brother were here because Gabriel had always been a much cleverer schemer than Balthazar. Castiel is clever, and a damn sneaky little bastard when he wants to be, but he has always lacked the certain brand of mischievous ingenuity necessary to be a proper, playful Trickster as Gabriel had become. Balthazar needs Crowley for this, and hopes that he can contact the demon and that Crowley has at least found _something _in his search.

"Wait here," Balthazar says, belatedly realizing Dean has started talking again. "I'll return shortly," he adds, and ignores the sharp curse thrown after him as the current of air pulls him into the ether.

* * *

><p><em>The colors fade like the sensations had before. The only reality that remains is red flames and gray ash. Burning, scorching heat fades to emptiness and the hollow void. Gray, gray like the world of emotions colored black and white, coated in the ash and dust of rusted magic and goodness.<em>

_Don't cry out. She'll be upset again. Mustn't make her upset again. Mustn't mustn't __**mustn't**__._

"Oh, angel. Why do you resist?"

Try to keep fighting, Cas.

_Keep fighting, have to keep fighting. Mustn't listen, mustn't upset her. But keep fighting, keep fighting._

_The inferno roars so_ loud _inside._

_Gray and red blot out the colors again. Lifeless, empty, void. No Father, no angels, no humans. Alone with just her._

_Gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, gray, red, green._

_…Green?_

_Green, in the eyes. Color them green, flecks of hazel gold teasing the edges of each pupil. Bow the legs, cock the mouth for a quirk of mirth. Spackle the face with freckles—hide the one on the inside of the left knee, just under the arch. Heal the flesh until it is infant-fresh again. Rebuild the body to house the soul, pure and golden. Don't drop the soul, though it struggles. Drag it from the knives and razors and chains and chooks, lift it from Perdition. Raise it from the shadows tainting it, clean it in Grace and light and love._

Dean_._

_Hold onto the golden glow a little while longer. Hold onto the laughing green eyes._

_Gray, red, green._

_Green. Green, green, green._


	11. Chapter 10 The Spiral

**_Disclaimer:_** I don't own anything you know here.

**_A/N:_** Another awkward chapter break, I apologize beforehand. This one's a lot longer than usual though! Enjoy! :)**_  
><em>**

The Spiral

"_And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of Grace and truth."_ -John 1:14

There are three things a furious Dean Winchester should not have to deal with when he is at this level of fury. The initial is disappearing angels who haven't answered a single goddamn question Dean has asked about Castiel. The second is a pain-in-the-ass little brother who wears puppy dog eyes and for some reason manages to learn Jedi mind powers whenever he freaking _feels _like it.

This is why Dean is currently sitting and glowering at the spot where Balthazar had last stood instead of pacing the floor plotting ways to slowly murder the bastard. Sam with his stupid brain and his stupid logic had stupidly said something like _we can't do anything until he gets back and it might only make getting to Cas harder if Balthazar has to come looking for us on top of everything else._

Stupid. This whole fucking thing. Just so fucking stupid.

Which leads to the third thing that a furious Dean Winchester shouldn't have to deal with, which is waiting _as patiently as he possibly fucking can_ only to be interrupted from his waiting and brooding and being generally pissed off by the arrival of an all-too-smug, apparently-_not_-as-dead-as-they-thought motherfucking King of the Crossroads. Erm, King of Hell. Whatever.

Dean is on his feet, the Colt that had been tap-tap-tapping against his thigh pointed at the demon before Crowley could even fully manifest, his customary tumbler of scotch pressed to his lips and one dark brow arched in amusement. Crowley's eyes stared down the length of the barrel pointed at his nose, and he tipped the glass from his mouth to say with a smirk, "Good reflexes, Winchester. Did you miss me?"

Dean doesn't even have the time to fully form the furious _what the fuck_ on his lips before he is suddenly ass-planted into the couch, the Colt clattering to the floor by his feet as Balthazar takes up the space the hunter had just occupied. Balthazar fixes a look on the hunter and directs Dean to, "Sit, stay." Balthazar turns to Crowley then, and rolls his shoulders as though shrugging off a coat. Dean opens his mouth to speak and Balthazar flicks a wrist. "And be _still_. Mum and Dad need to chit-chat." The words Dean intends to deliver, a well-earned _fuck off_, escape in the form of a choked-off gasp. The hunter starts aiming all kinds of mental swearing at the back of Balthazar's head when he realizes his voice has been muted.

"So," Balthazar says, focusing again on Crowley. "Where can I break into the area we discussed?"

"You can't," Crowley supplies, quirking a brow. Balthazar frowns. With a sigh, Crowley explained, "At least not without a guide, and knowing our history, I assume you'll want _me _to be doing that."

_History?_ Dean thinks loudly. _What freakin' history is this dick talking about?_

As curious as he is, he leans forward to eagerly listen to what Crowley is saying now. "It isn't Hell's territory we're breaking into, though. You'll do well to remember that."

"Of course, love," Balthazar leers. Dean may be sick. The angel looks over his shoulder, eyebrows up as he meets Dean's gaze. "If that's all, I need to get the kids bundled up. Poor Dean may burst if he doesn't get the chance to yell at me soon."

_Fuck you,_ Dean says through his glare. Balthazar smiles at him sweetly, and blows a kiss. Dean rolls his eyes.

Crowley looks unimpressed, quirks a brow at them. "I'll meet you at the usual place," he says to Balthazar then blinks out of sight.

Dean has about three seconds to wonder what the hell that was all about, then his throat tingles and when he coughs experimentally he is relieved to have his voice back. He's on his feet almost instantly, crowding into Balthazar's space with his finger very nearly jabbing the angel's throat. "You're gonna tell me what the hell's going on, or I'm gonna find the most excruciating way possible to kill you."

Balthazar gives him a bland look. "Winchester, you have no idea how to make an angel hurt. And unfortunately for you, I don't give a damn about hurting you back." He intercedes whatever Dean means to say, laying a hand upon Dean's shoulder as though to hold him in place. "Look, Winchester, I don't have the time to hold your little hand and tell you it's all going to be okay. Crowley's still alive. We can't kill him. Now you know. The more important thing for you to hold in your puny little mind is that Cassy is in mortal peril and if you and the moose-boy are going with me to save him, you need to be ready yesterday."

He pushes Dean back, and Dean stumbles once but already has it fixed in his mind that _Cas is in serious shit and we're going to get him now, oh my God finally_. "Sammy! Bobby!" he calls on his way out of the house and to the Impala to gather together supplies he knows he might need. He takes Ruby's knife, the Colt, some steel and salt rounds along with his sawed-off, a .45 just in case. He puts together some of Sam's stuff, too, and grabs some holy oil and holy water for the road. Sam and Bobby are already in the living room with Balthazar, who seems to be taking the time to tell them about the rescue mission.

Bobby exchanges a short glance with Dean as the younger hunter joins them. "Sounds like we may need the panic room," he says gruffly. "I'll stay here and get everything ready." _Ward against everything on God's green Earth and beyond,_ is what Dean hears and he nods in agreement. Whatever crap Cas is in right now, they're going to need to be prepared. Dean is still itching to get some answers about Crowley, but for the moment Cas is at the top of his priorities list. He can kick the angels' asses and demand to know what's actually going on with _that_ when he gets Cas back, safe and sound.

He tosses Sam his duffel, and turns to Balthazar with an expectant look. Balthazar smiles charmingly, but it looks too forced to be real. "You boys ready to go?" Neither Dean nor Sam responds before Balthazar claps his hands together then reaches for each of their shoulders. And then the world is spinning around them and Dean almost forgets to bend his knees to compensate for the feeling of having the floor ripped out from underneath him as they move through space.

* * *

><p><em>He is the sun. He is burning, bright white flames consuming all of him.<em>

_Gray, red, gray, red, green, red, gray._

_He is shadow, dark and clinging to the stillness of quiet._

_Lash, lash, lash goes the whip against this body's strange new flesh. Pain echoes, but never reaches him. He is beyond this._

_His wings were white once, white like pearls. They are burning, burning, destroyed and ash-gray and coal-black and blue like blooming bruises. Burning._

_Gray, black, blue, white, green, gray, red._

"Just let go now, little one,"_she coos to him, voice like velvet drawn across steel._

_He ignores her. Nothing exists. Everything is over. He fades away, away, away to the fire._

_He fades away, clinging still to that image of green._

_He is the sun._

* * *

><p>Sam looks the same way Dean feels when Crowley is waiting for them after they land. When he shoots Dean a questioning look, Dean shrugs and shakes his head. <em>We'll deal with it later.<em> Sam doesn't look very happy about it, but he nods quietly and takes a long look around.

The area is unfamiliar. It looks like the bowels of a hospital building, all white walls and floors stained red by the faintly-glowing lights overhead. They enter the hall inside a shadowy doorway, Balthazar already bursting into movement toward the demon awaiting them. Crowley smiles and tips his glass in greeting toward the Winchesters as he joins Balthazar in his walk toward another door on the far end of the hall. Unlike the open portal they entered through, Dean sees that the double doors opposite it are shut up tight. Old, rusting chains are wound between the push bars of the doors, and there seems to be some sort of bar lock overtop that. The door trembles as if in anticipation the closer the demon and the angel come to it.

Dean glances at Sam. "This is all kinds of shady. Where are we?"

"Uh, I'm not sure..." Sam looks around once, and tenses. "But I don't really like it. Feels..." He struggles for a moment, and when Dean raises an eyebrow, finally finishes, "...odd."

Dean rolls his shoulders in agreement, and hefts his duffel up onto his shoulder while keeping his other hand on his shotgun as he and Sam cross the hall to join Balthazar and Crowley. The angel is inspecting the sealed-off door closely, fingertips brushing over his chin. Crowley has one hand pressed against the surface of the door as though to hold it against whatever force continues to shake the door in little jolts, like something is trying to escape it.

"Okay, I'll bite," Dean says at last, joining the Fairly Odd Couple at the weird door. "The hell is this?" He gestures with the shotgun in the direction of the door. Crowley releases an impatient sigh, as though simply sharing the same space as Dean is causing him a migraine.

"It's a doorway into the Forbidden Place," Balthazar explains, marginally more patient than his demonic partner. "The parts of Limbo that are beyond Heaven and Hell."

"You usually need a guide to get very far in," Crowley continues in the angel's stead. "There are rumors that Purgatory is hidden there."

"So _of course_ you would know about it," Sam surmises with a roll of his eyes. Dean smirks at him. He's kind of glad he's got Sam with him. He isn't sure how he would cope with both Balthazar and Crowley otherwise. A quiet part of Dean is already plotting ways to kill Crowley as soon as he can. He fingers the trigger of the shotgun, wondering how he can subtly reach for the Colt and when. For the most part, though, he is willing to prioritize.

"Is anyone gonna fill us in on what's really going on?" Dean demands gruffly, staring at the angel and the demon staring at the door. "I mean, we know about Cas being a candidate to turn into the Phoenix or whatever, but what do _you two_ know that's got you all riled up?"

Balthazar pauses, glances aside to Crowley. Crowley only looks all the more amused by the whole situation. Dean foregoes his plan to kill Crowley with the Colt and wonders if he can punch a demon to death. The pregnant pause lasts a moment longer than Dean can stand, and he throws up his hands in exasperation. "_Well_?"

Balthazar grunts a sigh. "So there's something you darling boys don't know about the Arisen," he lilts in that strange, too-pleasant tone. Dean raises both brows, nodding encouragement. "If the Arisen and transmuted into a Phoenix, they don't simply have the power to destroy the All-Mother." Dean checks Sam, who furrows his brow in puzzlement. Dean's right there with him, so he refocuses on Balthazar to await whatever the angel is going to say. Balthazar takes in a deep breath and releases it slowly. "If the Arisen is transmuted and becomes the Phoenix, the Arisen becomes a very powerful being. But they are under the control of whomsoever performs the rite to transmute them. They become the most dangerous weapon to all the Powers—Heaven's Champion, Hell's Warden, Purgatory's Keeper, the Mortals' Sentry, and Death's Overseer."

"_Okay_?" Dean says dubiously.

Crowley huffs impatiently again. "Have you got _any_ brains in the space between your ears, boy?" he demands as he spins to face the Winchesters. "Your boyfriend is in the area where Purgatory may rest, and he is most likely being used to turn into a weapon to take over the free world." He gives a pointed look at Dean, who stares blankly back. Crowley rolls his eyes Heavenward briefly, then glares at Dean. "He's been kidnapped by _Eve_, you moron!"

The world falls out from under Dean again.

* * *

><p>Eve has Castiel. Now that someone finally <em>told<em> him, it makes perfect sense. Balthazar and Crowley both seem to think Eve is after something, something more than the bowels of Hell or the whole of Earth. Possibly something even greater than the Throne of Heaven, though neither Crowley nor Balthazar can pinpoint exactly what.

The angel and the demon take turns touching the Sealed Door, as Dean has started to call it. Apparently, it was locked by a powerful demon and an archangel thousands of years ago, effectively hiding the Forbidden Place Crowley and Balthazar keep talking about. And, if the rumors are true, this Forbidden Place also hides Purgatory within its folds. It takes the power of both an angel and a demon to unlock it but since Balthazar isn't an archangel and Crowley, despite ruling all of Hell and apparently holding the same status as Alistair (Dean shudders to think about _that_), isn't as powerful as the demon who had sealed the door had been, it's taking a really, _really_ long time.

Somewhere along the line Crowley let it slip that they are standing in an area of the Between that is close enough to Hell to emulate its appearance, and Dean is seriously disturbed by this but he doesn't exactly know why. Probably because he never remembered Hell as some weird building with creepy-ass red lights illuminating all the halls. Dean and Sam really have nothing to do right now, so they spend time pacing the hallway they're in at the moment and glaring at Balthazar and Crowley in silent demand that they hurry the hell up. Well. _Dean_ glares. Sam mostly just waits in mild impatience more because he doesn't like their current travel-buddies than because he doesn't understand why they haven't opened the damn door yet. Sam is far more understanding about the situation than Dean. Nothing really new about that.

Dean pauses in his latest circuit down the hall and back and turns as he hears something like crackling static behind him. Balthazar makes a small triumphant _aha_, and steps aside to let Crowley join his side as both angel and demon lean their whole weight into the door and _push_.

The double-doors groan, and fold like crumpling paper beneath the combined power shoving into them. Then they fall inwards, the locks and chains all snapping as if they'd been cut through. In the stead of the doors, there is a thick gray haze. Mist rolls into the hall from the Beyond, and something seems to slacken in the shoulders of Balthazar and Crowley as they both stand back.

"It's opened," Crowley murmurs. "And your way is cleared. This is as far as I go."

"Agreed," Balthazar returns before Dean can say anything. Dean starts forward, but Crowley has already vanished before he can even blink.

"Dude!" Dean stares at Balthazar accusingly. "What the hell?"

"You can't kill him yet," Balthazar replies. "We still need him."

"We _do_?" Sam asks incredulously, also looking peeved.

Balthazar rolls his eyes, and ignores the humans. "Follow me. Stay close. For the love of _Daddy_, don't die. Cassy will _kill_ me if either of you does. Then he'll bring you back, but the point remains that _I'll_ be dead and that is depressing." He turns back toward the violet-gray mists, and ducks inside the doorway. Dean growls a curse, and shoots a look at Sam.

"Yeah," Sam sighs. "I know. We'll kill them both later, all right? Let's go get Cas."

Dean can, at least, get behind _that_ part of this fucking day.

* * *

><p>The mist thickens to a fog when they follow Balthazar from the red hallway. The space widens, as well, broadening from a tunnel to a cavern then opening up so that they no longer seem to be inside a building but outside in the dark. The haze around them emits a lurid indigo-colored glow, and it seems to be the only source of light that this place offers aside from, strangely enough, Balthazar. Dean notices it almost as soon as his eyes adjust to the darker level of light here—Balthazar glows only slightly, casting what appears to be a <em>pink<em> glow. Yeah. The freaking angel is glowing _pink_.

Dean shifts closer to his brother, trusting Sam to have his back and to save him if Balthazar decides to get frisky. He does _not_ want a pink-glowing angel near him. Ever.

They pass what looks like a mummified black tree, and Dean feels like he suddenly stepped into a Tim Burton film. The floor gradually fades away and becomes hard-crusted earth beneath his boots. The world around them starts to shift, giving Dean a creepy feeling like they're inside a living being rather than in the Between that Balthazar had described for the Winchesters earlier.

_Man,_ Dean thinks, _Cas is probably miserable here._

Dean remembers when Castiel was Falling, before Sam conquered the Devil and stuffed him and Michael into the Cage. Anytime Castiel didn't have a clear view of the sky, he would be bitchier than Sam on his finest bitch-days. Dean had soon discovered that Castiel still felt connected to Heaven if he could _see_ it.

Dean had given some serious thought to painting the ceiling of the Impala and every other building they ever entered regularly (A.K.A. _Bobby's_) with a mural of clouds and clear blue skies.

This is hardly the time for it, but Dean can't help but consider how hard Cas has been fighting. He can't help but think about the reason _why_ Cas is still fighting the Good Fight while he and Sam have been left with the considerably calmer task of handling the Mother of All. Frankly, Dean doesn't know what the Mother is after. She seems to have been very quiet, save the creepy herpe-thing threatening them through Bobby's body. Dean thinks this is probably _easy_ compared to what Castiel is doing, taking on the whole of Heaven to keep mankind safe awhile longer.

To keep _Dean_ and his family safe awhile longer.

Dean sighs, and glances around again. He avoids looking at Balthazar's Pepto-looking self and instead looks at the fog around them. It curls in wisps and tufts, nearly thick as a cloud. The scenery here is boring. And kinda gay. _Really_ gay if he counts Balthazar as scenery. Dean shrugs one shoulder, lets it slide without comment. Not like he has so much room to talk, anyway, when all he's been able to think about for the last couple weeks is azure eyes.

It takes what feels like another hour of walking in stiff silence, Sam just as tense as he is, before Dean finally loses his patience. "Hey, Captain Jack," he calls to Balthazar. "We getting any closer to wherever we're going?"

Sam snorts, and echoes under his breath, "Captain Jack? You watch that show?"

"No, bitch, I have to listen to _you_ watching that show," Dean snarks back and kicks his brother lightly with the side of his boot.

Ahead of them, Balthazar is shaking his head in what could be amusement or disdain. "We're nearly there," he says in response to Dean's question. "If you focus, you should be able to make out the outline of the citadel ahead."

"_Citadel_?" Sam and Dean question together. Dean squints and tries to force his eyes to cut through the masses of fog before them. Sure enough, he thinks he can make out the vague shadowy silhouette of what _could_ be a building. He frowns at the odd shape, something like a spike in the distance. It looks _nothing_ like what he imagines a citadel should look like.

"_That's_ where we'll find Cas?" Sam asks doubtfully. _Good job, Sammy,_ Dean thinks 'cause, _yeah_, that place is frigging_ weird_-looking_._

Balthazar doesn't bother responding. Something flickers behind his back, fading in then out in a sparkling wave, and Dean finds himself staring at the area closely. _Was that his wings?_ And that brings another question to Dean's mind. "Can't you just zap us there or something?"

Balthzar lets his head fall back, and sighs deeply. "No," he responds, teeth gritted over the word. "My wings won't carry all of us, not here."

"Just asking," Dean grumbles. Then he adds for good measure, "_Dick_."

Balthazar starts speaking in Enochian, one hand moving in a plaintive manner that suggests he's complaining to his Father about having to work alongside a lesser being in order to save his brother. Dean ignores him, and rolls his eyes at Sam who chuckles quietly. They continues to sluice their way through the thick and dark. Dean prays to Cas, _Keep holding on, dude. We're almost there._

* * *

><p>The citadel pops up so quickly Dean doesn't actually realize they've arrived until he nearly bumps into Balthazar's back and suddenly they're all three standing in the shadow of the tall black spire. Dean gapes at the single tower as it goes up and up, reaching far beyond the range of his sight through the thickness of the fog above them.<p>

_Holy shit._

Balthazar chuckles, and Dean realizes he spoke out loud as the angel says, "Want to stare at the phallic-shaped object all night, closet-case? Or should we go ahead in and introduce ourselves?"

Fortunately Sam is also catching himself and blushing, so Dean can go ahead and assume that Balthazar had been talking to his brother. Saves Dean the time of needing to kill Balthazar then and there for being a massive fucking asshole. He glares at the angel anyway, and Balthazar shakes his head and steps up to the tower. Dean notices the huge arched door there a moment before Balthazar sweeps out a foot and effectively kicks the door down. Obviously the angel isn't going for the element of surprise.

"We're in the middle of the Forbidden Place," the angel explains to the questioning looks he receives from the Winchesters. "There's no one here that I can't kill that we'd be surprising."

"That include Eve?" Dean asks thoughtfully. It might really piss him off if he finds out that the angels could have killed the Mother of Freaking Everything all along.

The muscle in Balthazar's jaw twitches. "Eve will be busy with Castiel," he says quietly. And now _Dean_ is the massive asshole. They enter the door, and are suddenly standing in a fucked-up multi-level Beautiful Room.

Dean stares at the white marble floors and the statues and paintings of angels and demons for a split second. "_Fuck_ my _life_!"

* * *

><p><em>Black. Black. Black. Black.<em>

_It is dark here. Not even the glow of his wings burning bright exists. Black, black, black._

_He has been swallowed by the supernova. He has been tossed away into the Pit._

_His wings are scarred with fire._

_A voice._"Are you awake again?"

_Mother._

"Yes. I am your mother, little one. Wake up, now. We have much to do."

_Black. Wake up. No._

"Yes, little one—it is all right. Wake."

_Black, black, black, then_—

_Soft. A light touching his face, his eyes, shielding him. Mother._

"Don't fear. I will not let you suffer as He did. I will never let you suffer again."

_Soft, warm, loving, tender. Not black, not black but the color of springtime._

_Mother. Mother will protect him, now. It is all right to rest and breathe._

_He feels as though he's forgetting something. Something like gold and jewels, the spiced heat of the desert, and the light of the sun._

_He cannot remember what it is. It saddens him to have forgotten._

_He curls in the soft light of his mother's love. He will not leave her._


	12. Chapter 11 The Phoenix

**_Disclaimer**:**_** Still own nothing you see here.

The Phoenix

"_Then I thought, 'I shall die in my nest, and I shall multiply my days as the phoenix bird.'"_ -Job 29:18

They have been standing in the weird tower for approximately 12 seconds when Balthazar suddenly _growls_ and glances over his shoulder at Dean and Sam. "Cover your eyes. For at least the next two minutes."

Barely exchanging a glance, the brothers both throw their arms up to shield their eyes as Balthazar steps outside his meatsuit and lets his Grace light the place up like the freakin' Fourth of July. The whirring din of the angel's light show is soon staunched by the flesh of Balthazar's vessel. Balthazar's voice, when he speaks, is just this side of smoke-rough. "All right, boys. Let's get on with it."

Dean and Sam look up, and suddenly there are a lot of scorched marks where there was only pretty artwork and white gleaming floors a moment ago. The marks appear slightly like huge tigers, or something equally feline and large in nature.

"Uh," Dean says intelligently.

"What just happened?" Sam asks, saving Dean the trouble of forming coherent sentences.

Balthazar picks invisible lint off his jacket and shrugs as he straightens his lapels. "I hate Guardians," he sniffs. "Not sure where Mummy got the little darlings. They usually sidle around the walls of Hell."

Dean stares at Balthazar, not really sure what to make of that. Balthazar glances over his shoulder, and rolls his shoulders again. It makes Dean think of Cas, the way he sometimes shifted his shoulders as though to shake away the tension. He wonders now if it has anything to do with the angels' wings.

Picking their way around what looks like smoked entrails, Dean and Sam follow Balthazar who strides across the grand foyer to a wide staircase that winds around the building's walls, circling up and up farther than Dean can see. He isn't quite sure how this tower works. Sammy doesn't either, judging by the nerdy stare his baby brother is wearing.

Dean thinks maybe they should be meeting more resistance than they are. When he says as much to Balthazar, the angel only laughs. "You really think we're _any_ threat to the Mother of All?" He goes on to explain that the Guardians had only been for show, and the idea that they are utterly _screwed_ keeps Dean silent for the remainder of their ascent.

When they reach one of the chambers nearer to the top of the tower, Balthazar hesitates. He holds out a hand, tracing it over the air above the door before him. It reminds Dean of something he's seen Cas do before, and he realizes that Balthazar is scanning the room beyond the door.

A moment later, the door creaks, groans, and splinters into thousands of wooden shards that rain to the floor at their feet.

Balthazar pauses again, seeming to steel himself. When he ducks inside, Dean follows immediately after and sweeps the right side of the room. At his back, Sam mirrors his movements and covers the left.

Satisfied that there are no big baddies about to jump out to kill them, Dean glances toward Sam in silent communication before he looks for Balthazar. The angel is standing at the wall opposite the doorway, head bowed as he stares at the chalk lines of a circle like a Devil's Trap littered in Enochian symbols.

Seeing what the angel sees, Dean's breath hitches.

There is the shadow of wings emblazoned across the wall, spreading over the strange circle. Dean chokes back a curse, knows that these wings are the equivalent of a tombstone for angels.

Balthazar inhales sharply, and moves toward the shadow of wings slowly. His hand twitches when he reaches up to trace the jagged outline of feathers. "We're too late," the angel murmurs.

"Yes. You are."

Dean will gloat later for still possessing the response time of a much younger version of himself. For now, he turns on the balls of his feet and lifts the Colt in the direction of the female voice. The girl standing there is slender, and can't be much older than 20. She stands in the corner of the room, wearing a white gown and a scary-calm smile on her face. Dean's instinctual hunter-alarms flare up and he knows at once what this is.

Balthazar confirms his suspicions as he says in an accusing tone, "_Eve_."

She smiles wider, a flash of white teeth. Dean thinks of snakes. "Hello, angel. Sam, Dean," she adds, eyes flickering between the Winchesters. Dean tries not to notice how her eyes linger upon him in silent assessment for several moments, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Her attention moves back to Balthazar. "Now what business could an angel and two little hunters have in my house?"

"Where the hell is Cas?" Dean asks immediately. Sam gives him a surreptitious look out of the corner of his eye, his fingers twitching over the hilt of Ruby's knife at his side.

Eve frowns even as Balthazar strides confidently toward her. "Forgive the hothead, he hasn't had his valium-and-whiskey tonic yet today," he says lightly. "But we _are_ missing the General of Heaven's rebellion, and we _do_ have reason to suspect he's been here very recently." His eyes glance to the etched wings over his shoulder, then back to Eve.

Her smile doesn't return. "You really came here with the intention to steal away my youngest? What was your plan, angel? How did you think to win back your brother? You have no power here. This place is _my _domain." Her words stretch and fill the space of the room like a silent force, quivering on the air in tense silence.

A glance is exchanged between Winchesters and angel in reply. Sam nods minutely. Dean smirks, but it is mirthless and bitter. "Not sure Crowley would agree with that," he says.

Eve's eyes flash. Dean catches sight of something ugly and twisted behind the Mother's gaze, something _wrong_ and plainly inhuman. The Mother snarls, "You know Crowley." Her eyes are all predator now, skin pale and sickly as though all her energy is gathering outside her body. The tension that trembles in the air twists more tightly. "And do you know where the demon is?"

"Lady, right up 'til the dick popped up to help drag me into Limbo, I was under the impression that Crowley was _dead_," Dean retorts, gritting his teeth. "No love lost between him and me, if you know what I mean."

Eve stares at him, unfazed. "Fine," she deadpans. Then, a smile blooms over her face and she turns her head to speak over her shoulder. "Come to Mommy, little one."

Dean frowns and exchanges a quick glance with Sam. _What the hell?_ The walls around them seem to hum, then rumble as a sudden gust of wind bursts into the chamber. Dust stirs, easing up from the floor and through the edges of the stone walls. And then _something_ enters the room, a silent boom echoing out from the space behind Eve. Dean almost has to blink at the sudden bright form, thinks he can make out the elegant arch of a long neck and the swirl of long tailfeathers before the light curls inward and collapses in on itself.

Then suddenly Castiel is standing there, head bowed submissively. Only this isn't _Cas_. Everything about him is..._off_. Castiel looks _weird_, and he isn't wearing the trench coat, is decked out in a black coat and suit instead. His eyes are pale and almost silver-blue, and eternally empty. His face is impassive, alien like the angel he had been before Dean had taught him to loosen the stick up his ass and _live_ a little. Somehow, Castiel reminds Dean of dusk and shadows and moonlight, and that is definitely the weirdest thing Dean has ever thought.

This is not what Dean had been expecting. Balthazar or Sam, either, if the choked-off sounds at his side are anything to go by.

The weirdest thing is the wings that Dean has only ever seen the shadow of, now curled around Castiel's shoulders and _much_ different than the black magnificent things he remembers. The wings remain curled, but Dean thinks that they look like the open sky on the road at night. He thinks he can see tiny pinpricks of stars glowing in the feathers, can see the midnight-satin hue of the sky at its darkest. On the edges of each feather there is the shimmer of azure flames.

Dean admits privately that Castiel in any form is beautiful.

But, still, this is _wrong_.

When he finds his voice again, Dean rasps, "Cas?" Castiel stares back at him, no sign of recognition in those strange eyes. Dean turns the sudden raging fury in his chest onto Eve, growling, "The _hell_?" He knows Castiel is no longer an angel; but he had expected _Cas_, not this creature who sees a stranger where Dean stands.

Eve smiles beatifically. "He is my son, now. He no longer bows to the world of Man." She raises a hand by her side; Dean is horrified when Castiel moves to nuzzle his cheek into the Mother's open palm, his eyes falling closed as if enraptured. Eve's eyes hold Dean's for a moment before she turns to coo to Castiel, "Are you ready to seek Hell's Warden for me, little one?"

Castiel doesn't answer aloud, but those silvery eyes blink up at Eve. And God help him, Dean wants to cry when he sees Castiel's head tilt just slightly. Eve smiles brightly at her new son, and turns her eyes back to Balthazar, Sam, and Dean. "Sorry boys, but I have a date to find," she says with a smile. "You'll have fun with my other children, won't you? They love to play with new toys."

Castiel's new wings spread around the Mother, and before Dean can take a step forward they vanish. "_Dammit_!"

Balthazar gives a jolt, one hand moving to his opposite shoulder and face pinched with annoyance and pain. "Oh, _bugger_," Balthazar mutters. "She clipped my wings."

Dean whirls to him just as Sam says, "Uh. Guys?"

Dean knows before he turns in the direction Sam is pointing. He hears the growling. When the hunter finally manages to look, he tries hard to remember if he has silver bullets with him. The Alpha appears to be a werewolf-zombie crossbreed, all gray skin and pale hair and _huge fucking teeth_, and normally that would be awesome. Normally being, with Dean ensconced in a hotel and this shit being a bad SciFi flick on TV.

The werewolf lunges, and Balthazar steps forth to meet it.


End file.
